Days Gone By
by TheAsset6
Summary: [Hogwarts AU - One-Shots for The Light in the Shadows Trilogy] They say there are two sides to every story, but there are plenty more than that. This is a collection of one-shots accompanying "The Light in the Shadows" main works.
1. Winter's Collar (2007)

**A/N: Welcome back! To new readers, THESE ARE NOT STANDALONE STORIES! They are alternate perspectives of scenes that happen in or are related to the rest of "The Light in the Shadows" series. Please make sure you have read that before these! I will put a warning on each chapter indicating how far you need to read in order to avoid spoilers in the main series. These one-shots are a combination of ideas that I wanted to write and prompts that I received on AO3 from people who wanted to see certain scenes or perspectives. Also, given that these one-shots are from so many different perspectives among the MCU characters, I've decided to label it as being in the Avengers fandom rather than Cap like the rest of the series, hence why you won't see it there. These stories were written between 2016 and 2017, so you may notice some changes (and hopefully improvements) on the quality. The title will include which year the one-shot occurs in since the series spans rather a few. The first happens during "World So Cold," so please make sure you've read through chapter three of that before you read further!**

Winter's Collar (2007)

"Winter, look what Dad got for you!"

Winter lifted her head from where she'd been grooming her paw on his bed, watching as Bucky bounded across the room and hopped up onto the mattress. He'd only had her for two weeks, but they were already inseparable. The only time she wasn't with him was when he was eating dinner with his family, since his mom said _the table is no place for pets, James_. Bucky was positive she was just trying to stop him from sneaking his kitten some stuff off his plate that he didn't like.

Otherwise, Winter was never far from his side; she even followed him into the bathroom while he was taking a shower. Steve had laughed pretty hard at that when Bucky introduced the two of them on their last Skype night, along with the fact that Bucky had _maybe_ been cuddling Winter up to his neck the whole time—but it was so _obvious_ Steve was just jealous of the fact that Bucky had gotten a pet while Sarah was still resolutely set on no animals in the house (which Steve had immediately blamed on his allergies and asthma when Bucky told him so).

In spite of what his dad had said about Winter being his cat and his responsibility, he was suspiciously open to buying her things—if by _open_ you meant spoiling her rotten. He came home from work almost every day with a new toy or treat for her to try, and Winter had taken to scratching at Bucky's wrist until he took her down to wait by the door for him to get home. Today, Bucky had been downstairs with his mom helping her cook dinner (because apparently that was something he should learn to do now that he was _growing up so fast_ ) when his dad got home holding the one thing they _hadn't_ gotten for Winter yet: a purple collar.

Which he was now dangling in front of his kitten's utterly unimpressed face.

Winter squeaked out a tiny meow before turning her head to nuzzle at his knee the way she always did when she wanted cuddles. Laughing, Bucky plucked her up and held her to his chest so she could see her new collar in spite of her best efforts to ignore it.

"Isn't it pretty?" he cooed, bouncing her up and down a little. "It's even got a bow in front and a little bell with your name carved on it and everything. I guess that's so Mom doesn't almost step on you like last week."

That had been entertaining. Well, it had been entertaining in _hindsight_. His mom had just gotten home from the Ministry and was walking into the kitchen when Winter, who was finishing the dinner he'd put in her bowl, decided to dart across the kitchen to where Bucky was sitting at the table. One shout and a frightened yowl later, Bucky was kneeling on the floor with a trembling Winter in his arms while his mom leaned back on the counter until her near-heart attack abated. A bell would definitely be a good idea, especially when Winter was still so small that she didn't make a sound when she moved.

"Let's see how it looks, huh?"

Winter struggled a little when he tried to put the collar around her neck, but he managed to attach the clasp so it was snug without being tight, the little bow and bell off to the side.

"That is absolutely _precious_!" exclaimed his mom, and Bucky whirled around on the bed to see her grinning in his doorway.

"Yeah, I just don't know if she likes it," he muttered, glancing back down at where Winter had gone still in his arms. Her usually wide, round eyes were flattened out in a passable imitation of human disdain, and they were zeroed in on _him_.

His mom made a small noise of sympathy before suggesting, "Maybe she just needs some time to get used to it. After all, she's never worn one before."

Shrugging, he replied, "Maybe."

"Give her a bit to figure it out. Dinner's ready anyway."

Bucky plastered his most innocent expression on his face and began, "Could I pl—" before he was abruptly interrupted.

"No, you may not bring your cat," was the deadpan answer, and then his mom was disappearing back downstairs.

"Well," sighed Bucky, scratching behind Winter's ears one more time, "it was worth a try anyway."

Normally, Winter would meow in commiseration. Not today, though. She just kept staring up at him as he set her down on his pillow where she'd been before and stood up; her eyes followed him all the way out the door.

Dinner was an uncomfortable affair, although Bucky figured it probably only felt that way to _him_ since his mind was still upstairs with Winter, wondering how she was acclimating to her collar. He practically inhaled his food so he could ask to be excused, but then his dad asked (see: _told_ ) him to do the dishes and his mom wanted him to take the trash out—by the time he made it back to his bedroom, it had been almost an hour since he left.

"Sorry, Win," he panted after running back up the stairs. "I had to…"

Bucky trailed off with a frown, slowly approaching his bed to make sure he was really seeing what he thought. Sure enough, Winter's collar was sitting in the middle of his bed while the kitten herself was up on his pillow, fast asleep.

 _How did she do that?_ he mused, picking up the collar to check the clasp. It was still closed, so it wasn't like she'd managed to open it somehow. Maybe it was faulty? Or perhaps he just hadn't tightened it enough and it slipped off.

Whatever had happened, it was pretty obvious that Winter wanted nothing to do with the collar. Now that he looked a little closer, it _was_ a little big for her—she was still able to fit in just one of Bucky's hands, so the bow probably rubbed against her cheeks too much for her to be comfortable in it.

 _We can always get her something else_ , he decided, tossing the collar on his computer desk and resolving to tell his dad in the morning. For now, he figured if Winter was asleep he could take advantage of having two free hands to play _Forza_.

* * *

Bucky was lying on the couch, watching Winter run after her toy mouse where it was skittering around the living room floor, when his dad got home from work with a plastic bag in his hand.

"Hey, Dad," he mumbled, not bothering to look up. He was still angry with both his parents after they'd broken the news to him last night that they wouldn't be going to Brooklyn this summer. Apparently his mom needed to go on some trip around half the world and his dad would be in Scotland for a few weeks, which meant Bucky and Becca would be dragged along for the rest of the summer. They were leaving in two days, and Bucky knew he was supposed to be packing for the trip but decided to wait until the last minute out of spite.

"Hey, Buck," his dad sighed tiredly, dropping his messenger bag by the door and walking around the sofa. "Got something for Winter today."

Bucky just _barely_ managed not to roll his eyes. If his dad thought he could buy Bucky's forgiveness, he would be sadly mistaken. Still, he couldn't deny he was curious, so he sat up to give his dad room to sit and watched him remove a little box from the plastic bag he'd been holding.

"I figured this one might fit her a little better," he commented with a shrug, holding up another collar. This one was orange and looked pretty ordinary; it was simple canvas with a buckle rather than a fancy one like the purple collar had been. There wasn't anything extraneous on it that would irritate Winter, either, not even a tag—her name was printed on the material itself in blue with his dad's phone number right next to it.

"It's cool," Bucky decided as he tried to remain as aloof about it as possible. He was supposed to be _mad_!

Smiling like he knew exactly what was going through Bucky's head, his dad started pulling the collar out of the box and nodded in Winter's direction. "Why don't you grab her and we'll try it on."

That part was easy. What _wasn't_ so easy was getting Winter to stay still after she saw what they had for her. His dad cooed to her gently as he attached the collar, muttering things like _it's not so bad_ and _there's a good girl_ , which didn't seem to help at all.

Just like last time, once the deed was done, Winter just went limp in Bucky's hands and let them admire the collar where it stood out starkly against her black fur. The purple one had been nicer, but this was just as good. As Bucky had figured, there was nothing that could be causing her irritation; the thick canvas was low enough that it wasn't anywhere near her face. Remembering what had happened last time, however, Bucky tried to stick a finger between her neck and the collar only to find that there wasn't enough room. It wasn't _tight_ , but it was snug enough that she wouldn't escape it this time.

"I think we've found a winner," his dad crowed with a grin, throwing an arm around Bucky's shoulders.

In spite of himself, Bucky couldn't help smiling back. "Yeah, I guess this one works."

It worked for all of two hours.

They were in the middle of dinner when something grey and tiny came streaking across the floor, a black blur close behind chasing it under the table. Bucky's mom shot him a flat look and he cringed, apologizing under his breath as he slipped out of his chair to follow Winter when she sprinted after her toy into the living room. He thought he'd put it away, but apparently he hadn't.

"Win, come here!" he called right as the toy slipped underneath the couch. Winter looked like she _really_ wanted to follow it but stopped to see what Bucky wanted with a reproachful look on her face.

"Sorry, but it's not playtime anymore," he sighed, getting down on all fours and reaching under the couch to grab the mouse. He thought he felt it and pulled his hand out to find that he was holding Winter's collar.

 _Wait… It can't be…_

Glancing over, he found that it _was_. He hadn't even noticed she wasn't wearing it, but Winter's neck was just as bare as the day he got her.

"Uh…Dad!"

There was a sound in the kitchen like someone scooted a chair back and then his father appeared in the doorway, frowning when Bucky just held up the collar in silence.

"Did you take it off?"

"No, it was under the couch."

"How did it get under there?" he questioned, coming closer to examine the collar like it might be some _other_ cat's.

Bucky shrugged. "That's just where I found it."

They stared at each other for a long moment before his dad called, "Hey, Winnie."

"Yes, darling?" his mom's voice answered from where she was beginning to clear the table with Becca.

"Cats can't do magic, right?"

The look they got for that would at least give Bucky something to laugh about while they were running around Europe.

* * *

"Okay, this time it's going to work," his dad declared. He had on his _Mission Face_ , so he meant business as he pulled the little blue collar out of its package. "I got this in Scotland while you guys were away. I'd _love_ to see her slip this one."

"Don't say _that_ too loud," grunted Bucky, holding Winter steady in both hands. She'd grown a bit in the last month, so when she struggled to get away from the collar, it was _actually_ a little harder to hold her.

Snorting, his dad just slipped the leather collar around her neck and attached it on the snuggest setting that fit. They double and triple checked to make sure it was both firmly attached and nowhere near loose enough for her to slip her head out before they exchanged nods of satisfaction.

This time, it lasted almost all day.

No matter how hard he tried, Bucky couldn't get Winter to do _anything_. She wouldn't play with her toys, wouldn't follow him around the house like she normally did—she wouldn't even check her bowl to see if there was food. All she'd do was mewl sadly until Bucky picked her up and snuggled with her; then she fell silent and curled into a ball underneath his jaw like it was the safest place in the world.

His father periodically came to check on them and make sure his latest purchase was doing its job, a smug little smirk twitching up the side of his mouth when he saw Winter still wearing the band of blue around her neck each time.

Bucky honestly didn't mean to fall asleep. He didn't even feel tired, but perhaps the stress of following his mother all over the continent had gotten to him more than he'd realized. The sound of his mom's voice woke him, calling that it was time for dinner, and Bucky stretched his arms and legs in front of him after having been curled up around his kitten for the last three hours.

Winter, however, was nowhere to be found.

"Win?" he called, glancing around him to see she wasn't on his pillow where she liked to sleep at night. "Win, where are you?"

Hopping off his bed, Bucky knelt down to look underneath, but she wasn't there. He proceeded to check all of her usual haunts and hiding places to no avail as well before he ran down the stairs and announced that he couldn't find her anywhere.

"She's right there," his dad told him, jerking his head in the direction of her food bowl with a look of frustration on his face.

Bucky whirled around on his heel, not bothering to give a second thought to why his dad looked pissed when he was so worried he'd lost Winter. He realized it a second later, however, when he saw her chomping on a little piece of kibble.

Her collar was floating in her water bowl.

* * *

"A chain collar, Dad? Really?"

"What? I've heard they're fashionable."

"Yeah, if you're in a biker gang."

"Hey, it's hot pink," grumbled his father as if that was all the argument he needed.

Bucky just rolled his eyes, sighing as he held up Winter one more time for yet another stupid collar. "Dad, why bother? She's just gonna get out of it anyway."

"Because _pets_ get _collars_ , Bucky," his dad insisted, tongue between his teeth as he focused on keeping his fingers away from the sharp little claws trying to maim them. "You're going to Hogwarts in two days. Do you really want her running around the castle for anyone to pick up just because no one knows she's yours?"

Bucky grimaced. He honestly hadn't needed the reminder that September first was so close. Steve had already left for Ilvermorny a few days ago, which meant he hadn't been able to Skype last night, and Bucky's mood was in the toilet as a result. When he was already facing going to a school where he didn't know anyone and wouldn't be able to talk to his best friend so easily anymore, the last thing he needed was to imagine Winter getting lost or stolen.

"All right…got it!" his dad exclaimed victoriously.

Winter glared at him as if she were plotting his demise.

His father appeared to be immune to her kitty irritation and continued, "I think this one's a keeper. I just have a feeling."

Bucky didn't bother telling him that that was what he said last time. He was even kind enough not to say _I told you so_ when they walked into the living room after dinner and his dad's jaw hit the floor.

Winter was in the middle of the couch, her furry face pressed into the fabric with her neck stretched taut while her forelegs kept her steady. Both of her hind legs were reaching out to push at the bottom of her collar as she tilted her head to the side just enough to give her some leverage. Bucky thought there was no way she'd get the collar over her ear—then her tiny ear twitched slightly and pulled closer to her head to slip right up under the edge of the collar. After that, it practically _fell_ off.

 _That. Little. Brat._

Meanwhile, his dad was watching with his mouth hanging open and an expression of sheer disbelief on his face. When he eventually managed to find his voice, he just breathed, "You _would_ find the only contortionist cat in history."

Bucky's snort of laughter caught Winter's attention, and she froze in place as she realized she had an audience. She let out a pitiful, _innocent_ little mewl, and Bucky felt his heart melt as she hopped down from the couch and came to sit at his feet. Pawing at his ankle, her big eyes looked up at him until he picked her up and let her nip affectionately at his fingers. The way she was opening her mouth, Bucky would _swear_ she was grinning.

"Okay," he sighed, kissing the top of her tiny head. "We surrender."


	2. The Coldest Winter (2009)

**A/N: Please be sure to read chapter thirteen of "World So Cold" ("Not Quite Home") before reading this one-shot.**

The Coldest Winter (2009)

Sighing, Steve erased the line he'd drawn for the tenth time and glared up at the Christmas tree like _it_ was at fault for the fact that he couldn't seem to get this sketch right. He knew it wasn't the conifer, but that didn't improve his attitude.

In spite of the lights from the decorations and the sweet smell of his mom's baked goods wafting through the house, Steve was in a terrible mood. They were supposed to have Christmas with the Barneses this year, same as every other year since he and Bucky had started at Hogwarts, only for that rug to get pulled out from under them three days ago when Bucky had been whisked away by their teachers and hadn't returned. Coulson had come to see them not long after, explaining that Bucky had to leave early but not _why_. That was the part where his mom started worrying when he told her, and she'd sent an owl off to Winifred and George immediately.

No response had come.

That was more than enough to make Steve nervous without the addition of the fact that Bucky should have been able to text him if he was at home. That or he would have at least _answered_ the ones Steve had sent. Instead, they sat in his sent messages screen above the little notification that said it had been _delivered_ but not _read_. If Bucky really had gone home the way Coulson claimed, why wasn't he responding?

Regardless of the reason, it looked like it would be just him and his mom this year the way it used to be. He loved his mom, but the situation surrounding whatever was going on had definitely dampened his mood.

"Steve, will you come here and help me?" he heard his mother call from the kitchen.

Glowering down at his sketchbook, Steve called a quick affirmative reply before tearing out the page he'd been working on and crumpling it into a ball for the garbage can. He wasn't in the right frame of mind for creating art right now anyway.

In the kitchen, his mom was at the island grating carrots and celery to put in the turkey stuffing. She glanced up at him for a second before jerking her head towards the stove.

"Do me a favor and stir the pot?"

Steve grunted and obeyed, slopping a bit of soup out over the edge where it dripped down to the burner and sizzled. There was a sigh behind him.

"You know, I'm sure everything's fine," she reassured him in a way that was probably meant to be placating but actually ended up making his temper worse.

"You don't know that," he grumbled back.

The sound of chopping stopped and then his mom was coming up on his right, leaning against the counter and watching him as he studiously avoided her gaze. Neither of them said anything for a minute or two while Steve kept stirring until she took the spoon gently from his hand and placed it on a paper towel on the counter.

"Listen," she told him, putting a finger under his chin to force him to meet her eyes. When she spoke this time, it was more like she was treating him as an equal instead of just a kid. "I know you're worried. So am I. But we _have_ to trust that everything's okay until we hear otherwise. If something was wrong, I think Professor Coulson would have told you."

"Unless _he_ was told _not_ to," argued Steve heatedly.

She shrugged a shoulder with a nod that said _okay, fair point_.

"What if something happened to Winnie or George? Or _Becca_?" he demanded, knowing there were no answers to his questions but asking regardless. "What if something happened and he's not home and _that's_ why he hasn't answered _any_ of my te—"

"Steve." His mom put her hands on both his shoulders and gripped tightly, her face somber. "There are so many _what ifs_ , sweetie. Until we hear from someone, we're not going to know for sure and it's not worth getting upset over. If something happened, someone would let us know. If anything happened to Bucky's parents, you can _bet_ we'd be the first to know, and not just because I'm his second emergency contact on pretty much _everything_ just like his parents are for you."

Steve opened his mouth to refute that, but nothing came out. Everything she'd said made perfect sense no matter how much he hated it.

Seeing that he had no rebuttal, his mom's mouth quirked up at the side and she continued more softly, "So until we hear anything, let's not worry over what's probably nothing. Let's just have a good Christmas and a good vacation before you go back to school. Okay?"

Lowering his gaze to the floor, Steve nodded his head and tried to put a smile back on his face. He already didn't see enough of his mom as it was when he was at Hogwarts for such a huge chunk of the year. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin the time they _did_ have together by being a sourpuss over not getting to spend the holidays with Bucky's family.

So, after taking a deep breath, Steve put a mostly genuine smile on his face and asked, "If I say yes, do I get a cookie early?"

Admittedly, the swat he got to the back of the head was deserved.

* * *

Steve somehow managed to get through the holidays without thinking about the Barneses too much, but his worries came flooding back when they arrived at King's Cross to find that Bucky and his family were nowhere to be found. They'd spotted everyone else: Clint with his brother Barney, Sam and his parents, and T'Challa with his father. Peggy was catching up with Daniel further up the platform, and he could see Darcy and Angie chatting animatedly in one of the carriages already. All the familiar faces he knew would be there were—all except one.

"Mom?" he began slowly, glancing up to see that her own brow was furrowed as she scanned the crowd the way he'd been doing. When she realized his attention was on her, however, she tried to plaster a neutral expression in place.

"Maybe he took a Portkey back," was her excuse this time, although it didn't roll so easily off her tongue. The words were stilted as she attempted to inconspicuously keep searching the throng for any member of the Barnes clan. "If he left early, he probably had to take one anyway. It wouldn't be totally out there that he took one back instead of the train."

 _She doesn't believe that._

If she thought he'd missed the fact that she jumped to get the post every morning only to slump when there weren't any letters from a particular someone, she was sorely mistaken. If she thought she was being subtle when she asked if he'd gotten any texts or messages from his friends, she was wrong.

If she thought he wasn't going to realize that there _was_ something to worry about now, she obviously didn't realize who she'd raised.

"Mom, something's _wrong_."

There was a brief pause before she sighed, "Something's wrong."

They continued inspecting the assemblage in silence for a few more minutes until the warning whistle blew and everyone began bidding their families a final farewell before boarding the train. They waited even longer than that, but there was still no sign and Steve had to leave. He waved to his mom from the carriage the way he always did, albeit slightly more lonely this time.

Unfortunately, the tiny spark of hope that maybe Bucky had gotten in touch with one of their other friends (which would piss him off but hey, at least he'd know what was happening) was extinguished almost as soon as it had arisen. Sam and Clint said they hadn't heard from him; even T'Challa, with his position in Wakanda and a father who knew Winnie personally, could only shake his head regretfully when asked.

The ride to Hogwarts was a much quieter affair than in years past. Peggy and some of their other friends dropped in to say hi, but none of them were the one they were waiting for. The seat to Steve's left remained empty, and Igorha played alone for the first time in a while.

* * *

"Professor Coulson!" Steve called over (or, really, _through_ ) the heads of his classmates as they made their way to their respective dormitories. The last bastion of hope he and his mom had been fostering was dashed when he arrived to find that Bucky wasn't at Hogwarts and never arrived to dinner. Most of the professors hadn't been present, so he'd waited almost two hours to get answers— _excuse him_ for pushing a few people to get to the head of Hufflepuff house before he vanished for the evening.

Coulson turned at the sound of his name, frowning as Steve, Sam, Clint, and T'Challa approached him. "Is everything all right?"

"Have you see—"

"Where's Bucky?" demanded Steve, plowing right over what he was sure would be a very diplomatic and patient inquiry from Sam. He couldn't bring himself to feel all that bad about it, though.

"Mr. Barnes?" clarified Coulson blankly. The tiny dent between his eyebrows told Steve he was playing stupid, which did absolutely nothing to douse the ember that had been lit in his gut and screamed _danger_.

"He's not here," Steve explained, narrowing his eyes. "He wasn't on the train and none of us have heard from him. You said he'd be back after the holidays, so _where is he_?"

"Steve, man, _chill_ ," whispered Sam furiously, looking to Clint and T'Challa for backup only to find they weren't going to offer any.

Coulson looked between the three of them before his gaze shifted back to the angry asshole Steve knew he was being. It occurred to him in the back of his mind that he was being ridiculously disrespectful, and it would be completely within Coulson's right to give him detention for his behavior. He simply didn't care: he'd spend the next four years in detention if that was what it took to find out what the heck had happened to Bucky and his family.

His thoughts were probably showing on his face, because for the first time since they approached him, Coulson started to look uncomfortable.

 _Good._

The vicious sense of satisfaction he felt, however, was short-lived. Coulson's expression turned remorseful as he stated calmly, "Mr. Barnes will not be returning to Hogwarts."

" _What_?!"

This time, it wasn't Steve who blurted something out without a thought to the consequences of his tone—it was _Sam_.

Now that he was with them, Clint backed him up, "What the hell do you mean he's not coming back?"

"Watch your language, Mr. Barton," warned Professor Coulson.

"Professor, can you please tell us why he's not coming back?" inquired T'Challa politely, appearing collected in spite of the flash of anger Steve could see in his eyes. Steve had always figured being the son of a king meant he got everything he wanted, so having a teacher deliberately keeping information from them when it involved someone they cared about was probably agonizing for _Luke_ to tolerate.

There was a pause where Coulson seemed to be thinking about what he was going to say, but after a long moment he apologized, "I'm sorry, but I don't have any other information than that."

"Man, that's bullshit—"

"Mr. Barton!"

"You know he's not here, but you don't know _why_? Don't they have to give you _reasons_ for shit like that?!" Clint continued heedlessly.

"That's _enough_ , Mr. Barton," Coulson cut him off before he could continue on his tirade. "I've given you all the information I have. If you have any other questions, you can see Professor Fury but at this time, I don't have any other answers to give you and it's past curfew."

Clint opened his mouth, probably to tell him where he could stick his curfew, when T'Challa put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"We will see Professor Fury tomorrow, then," he agreed, giving Clint a little shove back towards the door to the kitchens and Hufflepuff common room. "Thank you, Professor."

They were fortunate enough that Clint waited until they were out of earshot before he (quietly) exploded, "What the hell? He totally kn—"

"If you keep harassing him, we're going to get more than just _nothing_ ," scolded T'Challa, his expression brooking no argument. "We'll go to Fury tomorrow. If Coulson is telling us he doesn't know anything, it's probably because Fury has told him not to answer any questions."

"Yeah, and what makes you think Fury will say anything if he didn't want _Coulson_ to?" scoffed Sam, shaking his head in disbelief.

Steve and T'Challa exchanged a glance that contained an entire silent conversation. Fury was the only person at Hogwarts, professor or otherwise, who knew that he wasn't just _any_ student. If anyone was most likely to get answers out of him, it was T'Challa.

"Luke's right," muttered Steve, hating the bitterness of the words as they left his mouth.

Sam and Clint gaped at him, the latter breathing, "You're _actually_ okay with this?"

"Of course I'm not okay with it," snapped Steve furiously. He attempted to calm down a bit before continuing, "But we're not going to get anything tonight anyway. Let's just… We'll talk to Fury."

"Correction: _we_ will talk to Fury," amended Sam, pointing from himself to Steve and T'Challa. "Hothead here's gonna get himself expelled if he talks like that in Fury's office."

The jab got a chuckle out of them at least, and they reluctantly separated to their own dormitories for the night. In Gryffindor Tower, however, Steve never did manage to get to sleep. All he could think about was how hard things had been for Bucky this year since his mom had announced wanting to run for Minister. Everything—the article, the jeers from people whose parents weren't on board with what Winnie wanted, the harassment from Tony about his inventions that might help the campaign—was so messed up.

The situation didn't get any better when Fury told them the reason for Bucky's disenrollment was confidential. No amount of pleading or diplomacy or outright cursing (because they hadn't left Clint behind, but Fury didn't even _flinch_ which just made them feel _more_ suspicious about the situation) could sway him.

It only got worse when his mom wrote to tell him the Ministry refused to say why all her owls were being sent back undelivered.

It was like Bucky and his family had vanished off the face of the planet, leaving the world a darker place in their wake.


	3. Dearly Departed (2012)

**A/N: Please make sure you read all of "World So Cold" before reading this one-shot. Major spoilers lie ahead.**

Dearly Departed (2012)

"Steve, we're going to be late!"

"I'll be down in a minute."

Steve opened his bedroom door and popped into the hall bathroom, scrutinizing his reflection without actually giving two shits about how he looked. He knew his mom wouldn't let him leave the house if so much as one hair was out of line, however, so he double checked before heading downstairs.

His black suit was perfect. It was tailored to fit his broad shoulders, which he still wasn't used to even after over a year, while hugging his narrow waist without making him look like a triangle. He'd opted for a black shirt underneath the jacket and a black tie to round out the ensemble. In fact, the only color to be seen was his pale skin, flat blue eyes, and a yellow and black Hufflepuff crest pin on his lapel.

It seemed blasphemous to wear something so perfect when the world was ending.

Exhaling slowly, Steve took a moment to steel himself before turning off the bathroom light and descending to the first floor where his mom was waiting by the door. Her dress was also black, mid-length and modest as was appropriate for occasions like these. When she heard him approaching, she turned from where she'd been staring into the middle distance to smile weakly up at him.

"Come here, let me see," she ordered, holding her hands out for him to take.

Steve rolled his eyes but obeyed with the best excuse for a smile he could muster, letting her guide his arms out to the side so she could examine the fit of his suit. For what she'd paid, it had _better_ be nice.

"You look great, sweetie," breathed his mom after completing a thorough analysis. Her smile turned tremulous as she pulled him into a hug; these days she had to stand on her tiptoes to do that, so Steve leaned forward to make it easier for her. If he gripped her back just as tightly, neither of them would mention it.

Sniffling, his mom was the first to pull away and laughed wetly when she spotted his pin.

"Is it all right?" he inquired, not really caring about the answer. He'd be wearing it regardless.

His mom nodded, though, and assured him, "It's perfect." They just stood staring at each other in silence as they were wont to do over the last week once the tears abated enough to be replaced by stunned stillness, then his mother prompted, "We should probably get going."

"Right," murmured Steve, pulling in a deep breath and reaching out to loop their arms together. He wasn't the biggest fan of Apparating, but at least it was quick.

After the brief, familiar trip through the vacuum of whatever void Apparition took you through, Steve's feet hit the ground and they found themselves in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. He'd never been here before, and he'd gladly give up the opportunity to see the splendor of the Ministry forever if it meant getting back what they'd lost.

That wasn't possible, however, so Steve followed a step behind his mother as she led the way past the Fountain of Magical Brethren down the middle of the wide hall. Steve wasn't sure if anything usually lined the walls; if there was, it had all been cleared away to make room for enough chairs to seat a football stadium's worth of guests. Most of them were empty, only the very front spaces taken since the public wasn't allowed in yet. This time was for friends and associates only.

Sam and T'Challa were already here, dressed in equally somber colors and not saying a word where they were sitting a couple of rows away from the front. Steve followed their gazes to the four caskets lined up at the head of the Atrium, each one closed with a picture on an easel beside it.

At first, Steve wasn't sure if the pictures were new. Winifred and George's countenances were exactly as he remembered from almost three years ago, not a new grey hair or laughter line to be seen. It wasn't until he saw Bucky and Becca's portraits that he confirmed the images had been taken long ago. Becca was about to turn eleven, almost a month to the day away now. A day she would never see. Her face, however, was that of the eight-year-old he'd seen at King's Cross on September first of their third year at Hogwarts; chubby cheeked and bright eyed as ever, her grin was infectious as her picture stared out blankly at the assemblage. It was considered inappropriate to have moving wizard photographs at a funeral, so she was immobile as a statue, frozen in time three years before the end of her life.

Swallowing, Steve turned his eyes to look at Bucky's picture. He remembered seeing that photo, albeit without color, in the _Daily Prophet_ during the summer before their third year while Bucky was off campaigning with his family. Would anyone else here be able to recognize the fact that his grin was a counterfeit? Would anyone else know just how much he'd _hated_ taking those photographs and would probably be rolling his eyes up in heaven if he knew they were using _that_ today?

" _That's it—I'm moving to the middle of nowhere and never letting anyone take another picture of me ever again. I'll tell them I think it'll steal my soul or something,_ " Bucky had texted to him at one point with a little laughing emoticon.

There were a few other portraits gathered together off to the side, but they were no more recent than the individual pictures. It made sense: the house they had apparently been living in had burned to the ground, and nothing was left. Any pictures the Barnes family had taken during the last three years would have been lost, leaving only what they could take before going into hiding to choose from.

It left Steve wondering what his best friend had looked like before he died. Was he as tall as Steve? It was hard to imagine looking _down_ at Bucky after spending so many years looking _up_ to him, figuratively as well as literally. Had his eyes stayed the same shade of grey, or did the hardships of his life turn them darker, more serious? Had he smiled as much as he did when they were kids?

Wondering was no use. The remains contained in the coffins would be unidentifiable if what the _Prophet_ published was to be believed. Still, he couldn't help thinking about it. He'd never stopped, if he was being honest, and he probably never would. Before the news had come out a week ago, he'd finally gotten to the point where he could get through a day without thinking about the Barneses or where Bucky was now. In the wake of their sudden departure, however, Steve was sure he would never make it so far again without those same questions tormenting him, making him wonder what had happened to his friend and if he missed Steve as much as Steve had missed him.

"Hey, man," greeted Sam quietly, standing up to give him a quick hug. T'Challa followed suit, and Steve gave them the best smile he could manage.

"Have you guys been here long?"

"We only just arrived," answered T'Challa, glancing over his shoulder. Steve followed his line of sight to see his father speaking with a few Ministry officials toward the back of the Atrium, somber but clearly not as affected as his son.

"What about Clint?"

Sam shook his head. "He was traveling with his folks, remember? I tried getting in touch with him to see if he wanted to share a Portkey, but I never heard back."

"I think he said he wouldn't have cell service," muttered Steve. He hoped Clint at least _knew_ what had happened. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to be a Muggle-born and not have such immediate access to everything happening in the Wizarding world the way he always had through his mom.

T'Challa nodded sadly while Sam cursed under his breath. None of them articulated anything more than that—there really were no more words to be said.

By the time the service began, most of the people they knew from Hogwarts had arrived. All of their professors were there, including Heimdall, who had always been Bucky's favorite and, in Steve's opinion, had a bit of a soft spot for him as well. Tony was there with his father and Pepper Potts, appearing more sober than Steve recalled ever seeing him. At least for today, the haughty, energetic boy Bucky had gotten a kick out of (and been annoyed by in equal measures) had been replaced by someone who looked more like an adult than ever before. Thor waved to him from across the Atrium, and he spotted Daniel Sousa with his parents further back. Peggy arrived shortly before the service, kissing his cheek and hugging his mother tightly before they had to take their seats. Steve wouldn't say a word, but he was secretly glad both of them were sitting on either side of him, letting him grip their hands tightly until it was over.

A few different people got up to say a few words, most of them either the priest or Ministry officials who had _had the pleasure to work with former Undersecretary Barnes and meet her family over the years_. It was difficult not to show how horrified he was to see that every word was about _politics_ —what a loss the Wizarding world was suffering and how devastating it was that her children didn't get a chance to fulfill their potential and follow in her footsteps and that they would live forever in the history books. A little red spark of anger ignited in Steve's chest and refused to be extinguished before the first five minutes had elapsed.

Who was going to get up there and talk about how Winifred Barnes was someone who was dedicated to and passionate about everything she did, whether that was politics or raising her kids or anything else? Who was going to get up there and talk about how George Barnes was the kindest person in the world and instilled in his kids not just an understanding of responsibility but also _caring_ towards others? Who was going to get up there and talk about how Becca used to snort when she giggled too hard and loved to steal something of Bucky's every time he went back to school just to have a little piece of him around? (Not that Bucky didn't _know_ she did it, but he let her _think_ he didn't.)

And who would tell everyone about Bucky? Who would tell them that he was someone who cared for the little guy and pulled Steve out of so many fights he couldn't win that he'd lost track? Who would talk about his sarcastic sense of humor and sharp wit? Who would lament the way the press had treated him during his mother's campaign and admire how he soldiered on, leaning on his friends for support? Who would tell stories about the nonsense he'd get up to with Winter and how he loved the cat that didn't get a casket more than life itself?

Who was going to stand up and tell people who the Barneses really were so their _true_ legacy wasn't forgotten forever?

The answer was no one. Minister Pierce, asshole extraordinaire, was the last to speak, his long-winded speech taking so long that he indicated there was no time at the end for anyone else to get up and say a few words the way they'd allegedly planned before the doors opened to the general public. They only just had enough time to do one last send-off.

The assembled stood in a line, filing up towards a group of officials distributing roses of various colors for them to leave on the caskets depending on their relationship with the deceased.

The _deceased_ , they called them. As if they hadn't been people a week ago.

When he reached the front of the line, Steve hesitated before choosing a color, glancing up to see what T'Challa and Sam had done. Both had gotten yellow roses and were laying them carefully over top of Bucky's casket, pressing a hand to the dark wood momentarily in final farewell before stepping back to allow others a turn. Most of the people leaving roses for Bucky and Becca were choosing yellow, and there wasn't a great deal more variety for Winifred and George. Steve couldn't help thinking they looked like someone had pissed all over them.

Clenching his jaw tightly, Steve reached out for a pink rose instead. The little sign above the box the officials were handing out the roses from said pink stood for admiration, appreciation, and love by any definition. What else could possibly say everything he felt in just a few petals? Steve had admired Bucky for as long as he could remember, secretly wishing that he would someday be as brave and strong as his best friend. Despite how many times he'd neglected to say it, he _did_ appreciate everything Bucky had ever done for him and even just the fact that he'd gotten to have Bucky in his life at all. They were best friends, brothers, and Steve loved him more than words could describe.

So he took his pink rose and laid it atop the bed of ugly yellow covering Bucky's casket, pressing a hand to the wood above where Bucky's head should be. There were so many things he _should_ say, so many things he _wanted_ to say that Bucky should have heard long ago. Time, however, had made fools of them all.

All he could think to say, whispering it for Bucky's unhearing ears alone, was, "Come back."


	4. Coupling (2011)

**A/N: Please read chapter two ("Cat on a Hot Tin Roof") of "Reclamation" before reading this one-shot.**

Coupling (2011)

Steve was sitting beside the Black Lake, trying to capture the way the sun was setting in the distance on parchment while he still had the light. Sam had been with him for a while before Clint pulled him away to practice for their last match—for the first time since they'd started at Hogwarts, Hufflepuff was in the playoffs against Slytherin, so they had a lot to prepare for. It was probably for the best: Steve had trouble drawing with an audience sometimes. He'd been accustomed to Bucky watching over his shoulder, but anyone else just made him feel insecure about the quality of his art. He _knew_ he was pretty good in the objective sense, it was just that he liked to have a piece finished before people started critiquing it.

So, when Peggy plopped down on the grass beside him looking about ready to keel over, Steve resigned himself to not getting done this particular sunset today. He could always try again tomorrow.

"You look exhausted," he observed sympathetically. It was to be expected: Peggy was in her fifth year and had been going through the process of taking her O.W.L.s for the last two weeks. That didn't exactly bode well for trivial things like _sleeping_ or _eating_ , and she'd been skipping out on meals with them more often than not recently. Steve knew where her favorite place in the library to study was, though, so he tried to bring her something as often as he could and usually stayed to see if she needed help.

Smiling, Peggy shrugged her shoulders listlessly. "I'm just glad that's over."

"How was it?"

"I swear, the _one time_ I don't brush up on Color-Change Charms is _of course_ when they want me to perform one," she snorted with a roll of her eyes. "Honestly, it's like they watch to see what we're out of practice on and put that on the test."

"I'm sure you passed anyway. It's not like they'll fail you for missing one spell," he pointed out reasonably. He decided not to say, _And if they do, they're assholes_. That wouldn't help anything.

"Oh, no," she laughed in a slightly hysterical manner. "I managed the spell perfectly." When Steve frowned uncomprehendingly, she elucidated, "I simply cast it on the wrong target."

Steve's eyes went wide. "You didn't."

"I did. The examiner looked _excellent_ with bright orange hair. I'm not sure what she got her nose out of joint about."

Guffawing, Steve covered his face with his hands. He wasn't sure at first if he was supposed to find that funny, but when he glanced up to see a humorous smirk on Peggy's face, he figured it was all right. Still, he felt the need to commiserate, "That's awful. Guess she just can't appreciate a good thing."

"Apparently not," Peggy agreed with a sniff.

She filled him in on the rest of her exams as the sun steadily moved toward the western horizon, complaining about the ridiculous feats they were expected to perform and the odd questions on the written portion that didn't make any sense as something that could potentially happen in real life. Steve listened carefully, taking mental notes for when he had to do the same thing next year. He wasn't altogether concerned about how he would do; his grades were fine, and magic had always come pretty easy to him (once it eventually showed up). He was more concerned with the stress Sam would put himself through when it came time and, to a lesser extent, how Clint would handle things as well. They were already at a disadvantage living in Muggle households, and the former had been asking dozens of questions to prepare early. Clint was his usual lackadaisical self, but Steve knew him better by now than to think he wasn't at least _internally_ kind of nervous. If they didn't get certain grades on their O.W.L. exams, they couldn't continue to take particular classes, and none of them wanted to be _that_ kid.

By the time she finished regaling him with Tony's brilliant idea to demonstrate the workings of one of his inventions to the examiners as a show of what he was capable of (more like a show _off_ , but that was Stark for you), it was almost time for dinner. They didn't go inside, though, since it appeared that she still had more to say but was having a difficult time getting it out.

"Are you okay?" inquired Steve gently after the third or fourth time she opened her mouth only to close it again.

With a strained smile, Peggy nodded before replying, "I wanted to thank you for your help. You honestly didn't have to spend all those nights quizzing me in the library when you've got other things to be doing."

"Oh, well…" Steve shrugged, brushing his hair off his forehead with a shrug. "I mean, it's what anyone would've done."

"I think the obvious lack of people doing so probably indicates the opposite," commented Peggy wryly. Did she scoot closer when he looked away or was he imagining things?

"Okay, yeah, but you've helped me practice for Quidditch before."

Snorting delicately, Peggy countered, "I hardly think tossing you the Quaffle after you drop it counts as helping you practice."

"I'm ju—"

"Steve."

His jaw snapped shut and he felt his eyebrows shooting skyward as she leaned in and kissed his cheek. She hadn't done that since he was a first year and got in fights with Hodge, although he hadn't been sure back then if it was because she _liked_ him or was so frustrated with his stubbornness (he was a big enough person to admit it, no pun intended) that she couldn't think of anything else to do. The latter was admittedly unlikely or else Bucky would probably have tried to make out with him at some point, but it was what his mind came up with so there was that.

This being the second time she'd kissed him didn't keep his brain from short-circuiting, though.

Peggy rolled her eyes when he just gaped at her. "For the record, that wasn't a _thank you_ kiss."

Steve just continued to stare stupidly at her like she may have lost her mind—or _he_ did.

"A week next Saturday, at the Three Broomsticks," she ordered, getting to her feet and holding her hand out to help him up. Steve staggered upright while she laced their fingers together. "Two o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late. Understood?"

"Is—are—" Steve shook his head. "You mean, like…like a _date_?"

"Was that not what I just said?"

"Well, I mean, we _always_ go to Hogsmeade together anyway, so I just wanted to ma—"

He was cut off when Peggy's lips crashed into his, grunting in surprise before returning the gesture. _Was_ he returning it? He _thought_ he was returning it—he'd never really done this before, so how the fuck was he supposed to know if he was kissing her back or if he was just standing there and she'd think he wasn't interested or was he doing it wrong and there was more to it than just sucking—

It wasn't until Peggy broke the kiss and he blinked his eyes open—when had he closed them?—that he realized he appeared to have done it right. That or she just had _really_ low expectations, so…tossup.

"You still have no idea how to talk to a woman, do you?" she observed quietly, a tiny smile on her lips.

Steve scratched the back of his neck bashfully. "Talking to you that day on the train was kinda the first conversation I'd had with one, so…"

"Well," she sighed, shaking her head. "Nobody's perfect."

Nobody but Peggy Carter anyway—who Steve Rogers was going on a _date_ with. He figured it was probably best that Clint never found out she was the one to ask (actually, _order_ was probably more appropriate) lest he be subjected to the heckling of the century. He wouldn't try to figure out what she saw in _him_ when she could get anyone in the world and they'd be lucky to have her. For once, he would just let her take the reins and bask in the glory that was being deemed worthy by someone he knew cared about him as they walked back to the castle hand in hand, feeling better than he had in a long time.


	5. Boggart Got Your Tongue? (2012)

**A/N: Please read chapter six ("Ghosts") of "Reclamation" before reading this one-shot.**

Boggart Got Your Tongue? (2012)

"Candy corn is actually quite nice," mused Thor with a _Who'd Have Thought?_ expression on his face. For a Gryffindor, he'd been surprisingly reluctant the last five years to give it a try, but Scott and Skye had finally bullied him into it.

Steve grimaced, glaring down at the bowl of candy in distaste. "I can't believe you really like that stuff."

"Hey, don't diss the candy corn," argued Scott as if Steve was committing some kind of cardinal sin for speaking against it. "It's a Halloween tradition, come on."

"It doesn't even have any _taste_ to it!" he exclaimed. "It's just straight sugar."

"I fail to see your problem with that," snorted Skye, leaning over Scott to grab a handful.

Steve simply rolled his eyes, knowing a lost battle when he saw one. Even when he was a kid, he'd never cared for the kinds of candy that were essentially just sugar with little other flavor (or nutritional value, if his more grown-up sensibilities were being honest). His mom would never buy the stuff, stocking the house full of chocolate or fruit candies at this time of year instead; he and Bucky could make quick work of those, but neither of them would touch the demon spawn that was _candy corn_.

 _Don't think about that,_ he sighed internally. It had always been difficult to remember things about Bucky since he'd gone into hiding with his family during their third year, but in the last couple of months those recollections had proven to be unbearable. He didn't fight them, though; it would be a dark day indeed when Steve fucking Rogers was said to be afraid to face his own memories. That didn't mean he wanted to think about dead loved ones on Halloween and tempt whatever ghostly fate might exist in the world either. It was a good day. Surely Bucky wouldn't begrudge him a grief-free holiday?

 _Please, he'd_ encourage _it._

So, pushing thoughts of his best friend aside, Steve pasted a mostly sincere smile in place and allowed himself to be pulled into the debate over the best kinds of junk food that had apparently been waging around him while he'd been lost in his own head.

Until, that is, someone screamed.

It had finally gotten to the point where he hardly reacted except to turn around in his seat to see where it had come from this time. Tony had never gotten tired of his stupid pranks, especially the Halloween-themed ones, and it happened like clockwork every year. Mercifully, this would be the last time unless he somehow convinced some poor sap to pull it off for him remotely.

 _...Actually, that sounds exactly like something he would do,_ he mused with a silent grimace. They were apparently going to need to have a talk at some point before the end of term about that…

More shrieks were sounding off all around them, and Steve actually had to admit that this was a…pretty weird prank. The illusions this year almost looked _real_ , and it wasn't until his attention was caught by some demon octopus at the Hufflepuff table that he realized they _weren't illusions_. One mighty tentacle sent Angie, Yasha, and Jarvis flying on one side before Sam and Clint met the same fate on the other. Skye was up like a shot, sprinting over to the Hufflepuff table.

Steve hauled himself out of his seat, planning to help however he could, and turned—

The Great Hall was empty.

Frowning, Steve's eyes darted all over the room as if this was part of the prank, but there really was no one _anywhere_. When he took a step forward, there wasn't even a sound as his foot met the stone floor. The air was still, stagnant, the stench of fear and loneliness all around him.

"What the—" His jaw snapped shut when even his own voice made no noise.

There was no way everyone could have vanished so quickly, not at Hogwarts where it was at least mostly _safe_. Tony couldn't have done _that_ no matter how good he was at spells and inventions. There was no arguing that he was alone, though, and a small, unfamiliar voice in the back of his head told him it was his own fault. It made no sense—how could this be _his_ fault when he didn't even know what was happening?

 _Because you let this happen,_ that same voice whispered once again. Steve whirled around, hoping to see that it was someone standing behind him, but there was no one there. _You could have stopped it and you did nothing. Everyone's gone, just like Bucky. Just like his family. Just like Dad. They're all gone and you didn't do anything to keep it from happening._

Steve stumbled backward with the weight of the accusation and fell back into his seat. The bench didn't move; he made no sound, not even a rustle of cloth as his robes shifted. The silence was unmarred by his presence, a ghost doomed to wander the world alone without ever truly belonging anywhere because all the people he knew and loved were long gone. Had they ever been there at all?

"No," he growled soundlessly, forcing himself back from the haze of guilt and despair that was clawing at his heart even as he struggled out of its grasp. "This can't be real. This isn't my fault, and it's _not real_."

"Steve?"

Like the flip of a switch, it felt as if his eardrums were suddenly ruptured despite how quiet it was. This wasn't the same as the void he'd been trapped in, though: this was the silence that could only come from a group of people that had just experienced a shock.

And in the middle of all of it, he became aware that Peggy was crouched before him, both her hands framing his face while she gazed worriedly into his eyes.

"Peggy," he breathed. She wasn't anticipating it when he practically lunged forward to hug her, burying his face in her shoulder with a shuddering breath.

Slim fingers brushed the back of his neck soothingly while her voice whispered that it would be all right, that none of what he must have seen was real. He knew that—he _did_ —but he still couldn't shake the sensation of being entirely formless, empty but for the shame that tore at his heart in that lonely place.

"It wasn't real," he murmured, feeling Peggy nod against his shoulder.

"It wasn't real," she confirmed immediately.

"It wasn't my fault…"

"No, darling." Her hand moved up into his hair while her arms pulled him closer. She couldn't know what he was talking about, but her tone still bore all the confidence in the world as she reassured him, "It wasn't your fault."

Steve didn't know how long they remained like that before guilt began to gnaw at him in a different way—Peggy was still kneeling before him, and that couldn't possibly be comfortable on the stone floor of the Great Hall. Sniffing, he pulled away to help her to her feet as Fury gave the order for them to get the fuck out of there unless they needed the hospital wing.

Although he was still shaken, Steve knew he didn't. There were plenty of people, however, who weren't fortunate enough to say the same. Some had obviously fallen over themselves or their demons in an effort to retreat and were limping or holding limbs with gentle fingers. Beside the Hufflepuff table, he noticed Pietro and Jarvis hauling Yasha off the floor, the latter's eyes unfocused as he visibly trembled in his friends' arms. Steve felt a pang of sympathy when he saw that Yasha couldn't even walk on his own and needed to be carried out, probably to the hospital wing if Pietro and Jarvis were smart. Natasha was with them, though, so he had no doubt Yasha would get the help he needed. Distantly, Steve wondered what could have been bad enough to make someone react so terribly when it felt like what _he_ had seen was the worst thing in the world.

He abandoned the thought as selfish the moment it occurred to him, thoroughly disgusted with himself. Just because _he_ feared his own impotence didn't mean that was the worst thing that could happen to someone. And from the looks of things, Yasha would probably agree.

"Come on," prodded Peggy, guiding him towards the entrance hall. "We should get to bed before Fury has a conniption."

Chuckling breathlessly, Steve nodded in agreement as his eyes found Tony and Fury standing together in the middle of the room. "I think whatever Stark's afraid of most is going to change after tonight."


	6. Absolution (2012)

**A/N: Please read through chapter thirteen ("Closure") of "Reclamation" before reading this one-shot. This is more of a companion piece to that!**

Absolution (2012)

George Barnes could honestly say he was nearly at the end of his rope with his wife. He'd only managed to get _this_ irritated a handful of times in his married life, so few in fact that he could count them all on one hand. Sitting there listening while she lambasted Minister Pierce's latest dumbfuckery had officially made the cut.

"I just can't believe he thinks he can fool people into thinking this nonsense is _real_ ," Winnie huffed, tossing the _Daily Prophet_ down on the table with a glare that could have set it on fire without a wand. "And people are _actually_ taking him seriously. It's been proven time and time again that things like Salem weren't nearly as damaging as people claim it to be—they didn't even kill any real witches! Meanwhile he's acting as if a bunch of raving lunatics know about the Wizarding world and are preparing for a genocide, that wanker."

Becca snorted into her cereal, which was apparently the only thing that would bring Winnie down from her towering rage at the moment.

"Never say that word, darling," she backtracked with a grimace.

"I never curse, Mom."

Which was utter bullshit, because George _wasn't_ able to count on one hand the number of times he'd heard his daughter using worse language than _wanker_ when Bucky was home—but he figured there was no harm in letting her believe she was getting away with it. If the worst thing his kids tried to do was adopt a few filthy words, he was a pretty lucky dad indeed.

"At least you won't have to put up with that guy much longer," he attempted to console his wife with a reassuring smile as he bit into his bacon.

"True, but it doesn't make his platform any less revolting, George," she sighed, leaning an elbow on the table to set her chin in her palm.

Nodding, George took another bite and observed, "It's not like there's anything you can do about it, though."

His jaw froze mid-chew when he saw the nervous expression that abruptly blossomed on his wife's face.

"Actually, I was… I was thinking about that," she began, smiling in a way that said her next words were _not_ going to be something he would be on board with. Not that that ever made much of a difference—again, it was a _handful_ of times for a reason.

He discreetly held up a finger for her to pause and glanced over to make sure that Becca's bowl was just about empty before inquiring, "Becca, did you get done the math stuff we were working on yesterday?"

His daughter, who had been drawing invisible figure eights on the table with her fingernail, cringed almost imperceptibly. If it weren't for the fact that he was her father, he might have missed it. But he _was_ her father, so he cleared his throat pointedly and shot her a look that said _you'd better get your ass upstairs and do it_.

It was amazing: no matter how old either of his children got, that always worked like a charm.

He waited until she'd emptied her bowl and scurried out of the room, and then turned back to his wife with pursed lips, taking a deep breath to calm himself ahead of this conversation.

"You've got an idea I'm not going to like, don't you?" he asked. It was evident from the look on her face that she was already well aware that they _both_ knew the answer.

"I can't just sit by and let him do this, George—"

"Sure you can," he countered reasonably. "You absolutely can, especially when there's literally nothing else you can do about it anyway."

"There _is_ , though," she argued emphatically. "If I could just give _one_ statement to the press, then that might turn public opinion against this Insight _lunacy_."

"Or it might get you killed," he shot back, bringing his fist down on the table harder than he meant to. He'd _thought_ they got past this hero-complex of hers _years_ ago. He'd _thought_ they'd reached the point where she understood that doing her _job_ and doing what was _right_ didn't necessarily mean that she must put herself in the line of fire—or the rest of them for that matter.

Winifred sighed, but she wasn't arguing. "Then that's the risk I take."

Nodding slowly, George pulled his hand back and settled it in his lap with the other, his knuckles white as he clenched both fists. "And how would you like me to explain that to the kids at your funeral? Or maybe they'll have theirs with you so I won't have to."

"George!" she exclaimed, glancing out into the hall to make sure Becca hadn't heard before furiously whispering, "How can you say something so terrible?"

"The same way _you_ can even consider going out there after everything we've been through!"

"It's _different_ —"

"No, see, you _say_ that," he interjected, pointing his finger at her, "but it's never actually different. It's always you trying to take on the Ministry and people who don't agree with you—"

"To _do_ what's _right_!"

"What about what's _right_ for your family?"

"Don't you see? It's the same thing!" Winnie was almost shouting now; there was no way Becca hadn't heard them. She was probably listening at the top of the stairs like George knew she always did when they had these kinds of discussions.

Taking a deep breath and keeping that in mind, George calmly commanded, "Explain how it's the same thing. Explain that to me, because right now, Winnie, I don't understand."

Winnie hesitated a moment, but it wasn't because she was trying to think up some excuse—it looked more like she had something to say that she knew he'd care for even _less_ than their current conversation.

"We can't let our children live in a world where Muggles and wizards are kept apart," she finally began, shaking her head sadly. "Pierce is trying to tell people that Muggles are dangerous and threats to our collective security. What happens when that Muggle turns out to be _you_? What happens when your children are told they aren't allowed to see you anymore because you're a Muggle and could be a danger to them and the Wizarding world? They shouldn't have to choose between their family and who they _are_."

That brought George up short. Like it or not, that was a point he hadn't considered before. Having a wife who was a witch—once he'd realized that she wasn't just being facetious—had never daunted him; he'd embraced her world with all the curiosity and acceptance in him. As a soldier, he'd experienced any number of new places and learned about so many different beliefs; finding out about the Wizarding world had simply been another. When they had two beautiful, healthy children and they began to show signs of powers, he couldn't have been more proud. Not once had he wanted to hurt his family because they were _different_ from what he was used to or what he'd known all his life before. He'd integrated himself into Winnie's world, and he'd never once doubted that he would be allowed to do the same for his children.

But Winnie was right: if this _Security Insight Protocol_ or whatever the fuck it was called would be the first step in removing him from his children's lives? It had to be stopped.

That didn't mean he was pleased with the fact that his wife happened to be the one most likely to do it.

"So, what's the plan?" he eventually capitulated, his heart heavy when he saw how relieved his wife was to have him on her side, however grudgingly.

She stood up from her end of the table and made her way over to him, leaning over the back of his chair to hug him around the shoulders. "I've already sent an owl to the Ministry. The only thing they've told the press is that _someone_ will be talking about _something_ in the Atrium of the Ministry at eight o'clock this morning. There will be Aurors there every second. I'll be safe."

" _We'll_ be safe," corrected George, squeezing her forearm lightly before getting to his feet.

Winnie shook her head. "George, no—"

"I'm not letting you go alone," he interrupted, holding a hand up when she tried to protest again. "We've only got a couple of hours to get ready if we're going to get you there on time. Why don't you grab a shower first?"

Sighing, Winnie scrutinized his expression closely before leaning in and pressing a kiss to his lips. When they broke apart, she nodded silently and left him alone in the kitchen.

He waited until he heard the shower running before he took off up the stairs. There wasn't much time.

One of the other things about being a soldier was that he was prepared for any eventuality. There were times when things were expected to go a certain way: you were expecting to go on a routine scouting mission and come back alive, you were expecting to wake up in the morning and still be in one piece, you were expecting to make it home to your family in a car instead of a pine box. It very rarely happened that you got _exactly_ what you were expecting.

Well, Winnie was expecting to make this a quick trip to the Ministry that would end in no reprisals from those Hydra assholes. She wasn't a soldier, so he would have to be one for both of them.

Checking to make sure the bathroom door was shut, George made a beeline for their closet and flipped on the light before dropping to his knees on the floor. His heavy duty lock box had admittedly always been a bit overkill, but he'd wanted to be prepared in case of emergencies. He grabbed the handle and dragged it out to his side of the bed, where he opened the nightstand drawer to retrieve the keys. Once it was open, he seized all the papers and documents and things that he'd once thought so important and shoved it all indiscriminately under their bed. Then he reached behind his head, grabbed the chain at the back of his neck, and removed his dog tags to place them carefully inside the box.

That was one.

Next he stood up and darted over to Winnie's makeup table, opening the jewelry box she kept on the right side. She wasn't much for jewelry—she only ever wore her wedding and engagement rings and a ruby necklace he'd gotten her for their first Valentine's Day together—but there were a few bits and bobs she hung onto. The one he was looking for sat in a place of honor right at the top, and George plucked her original wedding ring out of its case, examining the gold finish before returning to his lock box and setting it inside to accompany his tags.

That was two.

George could hear Winnie was still in the shower, so he left the lock box where it was and moved quickly down the hall to Becca's room. Her door was open and she was sitting on her bed rereading one of the comic books Bucky had given her years ago. When she heard him knock on the doorjamb, she looked up with a confused and slightly worried expression—he knew he was breathing heavily and probably looked like a wreck.

Attempting to slow his breathing back down to a normal rate, he pasted what was probably a _very_ strained smile on his face and said, "Hey, mind if I talk to you for a second?"

Becca nodded, setting her book aside and sitting up straight to watch as he came to kneel next to her bed.

"I've got a question for you, okay? It's going to be a little weird, but I need you to answer honestly."

"Okay."

"If you could give your brother something so that when he looked at it, he'd automatically think of you, what would it be?"

Frowning, Becca was obviously confused but hopped off her bed nonetheless. She rummaged in the small kids' jewelry box they'd gotten her for her seventh birthday and came back with a silver ring—it was _real_ silver. They'd gotten it for her when she turned nine to celebrate what a big girl she was getting to be.

She wore that ring for every special occasion—birthdays and holidays, even though they didn't have company anymore—and kept it safely tucked away any other time. They'd gotten her other things in the intervening years, but that ring was still her favorite.

"Are you gonna send it to Bucky?" inquired Becca, holding the ring tight in her hand.

How could he possibly tell her the truth? How did a parent tell their child they were preparing to die? How did a parent tell their child _to_ prepare to die?

 _Don't get ahead of yourself_ , he firmly insisted. _You don't know that that's going to happen._

George ultimately nodded, kneeling down to bring himself to her level. He looked her in the eyes and he _lied_ , "You know it's always hard on him going back to school. I thought it might be nice for him to have something that he could look at to remind him we're thinking about him."

Becca stared back at him for a long moment before looking down at the beloved ring in her hand. Then she reached out to offer it to him.

"Are you sure?" he asked, holding out a hand for her to drop it into his palm.

"Yeah," she whispered with a little smile. "Just tell him to give it back when he comes home for Christmas? I can give him a different thing every time."

There were tears in his eyes as George leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his daughter's forehead. She was growing up so fast… He just hoped it remained that way.

"Ew, Daddy, no wet kisses!" she giggled, squirming away and wiping her forehead. Right then, he could hear the sound of the shower turning off down the hall. There wasn't much time.

"Sorry, sorry, I know," he apologized insincerely, pressing another one—just as wet—to her cheek before getting back to his feet. He'd almost walked out the door when, seized by a sudden desperation, he turned back and told her, "You know I love you, right? You and Bucky—I love you guys more than anything in the world."

Grinning, Becca sprinted over and tackled him around the middle, murmuring into his stomach, "I love you too, Daddy."

He returned the embrace, reluctant to let go but knowing he needed to finish what he'd started. So, kissing the top of her head one last time, he disentangled himself and watched her hop back on her bed before returning to their room.

That was three.

* * *

"Hey, it's Ross, right?"

The Auror looked back at him as if George was a fly buzzing around his head and grunted, "Yes."

 _He seems like a friendly guy._ George internally sighed, maintaining the pleasant expression on his face as he requested, "Look, while my wife is doing her thing, I need a bit of a favor and wondered if you'd be able to help."

Ross raised an eyebrow and folded his arms, interested but obviously trying not to show it. "What would that be, Mr. Barnes?"

"I've got something I need to deposit at Gringotts, but obviously I can't exactly do that given that I'm—"

"A Muggle," Ross finished his sentence for him. George desperately hoped he wasn't one of _those_ assholes who looked down on Muggles just because they didn't have any powers. Knowing his luck, he probably _was_.

"Right," he agreed with a self-deprecating nod. "We're trying to get out of here as quick as possible once she's done, so I'd rather get there and back before she finishes her speech."

There was a minute where he felt positive Ross was going to tell him to get fucked, but then the Auror held out an arm to him and waited.

"Thanks," George sighed in barely concealed relief.

The second he took hold of the proffered limb, Ross was spinning away from him and pulling them through space. A moment later, they were standing in the familiar lobby of Gringotts, George trying to regain his footing after the memorable yet uncomfortable sensation of Apparition.

"I suggest you get a move on, Mr. Barnes," suggested Ross, glancing at one of the clocks on the wall. "Your wife's about to go on."

"Right," he muttered, shooting him a quick two-finger salute before heading to the nearest station.

The goblin working it glanced up from his paperwork to glare at George and looked him up and down once before inquiring, "How can I help you, sir?"

"I'd like to make a deposit."

"The vault number?"

"Three hundred fifty-nine."

Grunting, the goblin peered back down at the register in front of him and waved a hand over it; the pages magically flipped to the right spot. "Mr. George Barnes?"

"That would be me," he confirmed, pulling the corresponding key out of his front pocket and holding it up for the goblin to verify.

Apparently satisfied, the latter hopped off his stool and came around to wave him towards one of the doors off the main lobby. George followed him through the familiar process: hailing a cart, riding what was essentially an underground rollercoaster, and pulling up to the pair of vaults he and Winnie had used since they were married. Climbing out of the cart, he jogged up to number 359 and unlocked it.

When they moved from Brooklyn to London, they'd known it would require some downsizing. Anything that they didn't need or the kids didn't want in the house, he and Winnie had boxed up and brought here. Most of it was junk that they should probably go through and think about getting rid of, but there were a few things he genuinely wanted to keep if only to pass them down to Bucky and Becca: the medals from his army days, some family heirlooms, and their old toys. (Who knew? Maybe they would give them to their own children someday.)

Now he had one more thing to add to the collection, perhaps the last.

George reached into his back pocket and pulled out a black change purse Winnie hadn't used since they were in _style_. She may have forgotten, but he recalled that she had cast an Undetectable Extension Charm on it and had been lucky to find that she'd never removed the spell.

Setting the bag on the floor, he reached inside all the way up to his elbow until his fingers closed around the handle of the lock box and pulled it out. The rugged outside made a loud scratching sound against the stone floor as he dragged it to the side of the vault and stowed it next to a column of boxes balancing in the corner. Deed done, he stood up straight and took one last look around the vault that held the story of their lives.

If all went as expected, he would look back on this day and take heart in the fact that at least he'd made sure he did everything he could to do right by the only one of them likely to get out of this mess alive if things went wrong. He'd remember the things he'd thought this morning and be glad that he'd tried to be a good father at a time when he was sure that things would _not_ be going to plan.

He'd never been a praying man, but in that moment he begged God and every other deity who might be listening to please, _please_ let him be wrong.


	7. New Beginnings (2012)

**A/N: Please read through chapter four ("Equilibrium") of "Reclamation" before reading this one shot. Reminder that dialogue with /slashes/ around it is spoken in Russian.**

New Beginnings (2012)

/Where is Yasha?/ demanded Natasha when Jarvis arrived at breakfast alone the morning after the welcome feast.

Jarvis shifted uncomfortably under her hard glare, but Natasha wasn't overly concerned with his discomfort. Yasha had been acting strangely ever since the day they went shopping in Moscow, and although she was a good enough friend (most days) not to hound him for information, that didn't mean she felt comfortable leaving him on his own. If he wasn't with Jarvis, given that they didn't know any of the other students yet, then that was probably Yasha's current state.

 _Well,_ she admitted silently, _the four of_ us _don't know anyone here._

The events of the previous day had set Natasha on edge. Ordinarily, she would believe Yasha if he told her that someone wasn't trouble—but the way he'd looked at that _Steve_ person? The way Yasha had interacted with him on the platform, with a soft openness that Natasha hadn't seen since before he'd vanished over the summer? There was something else going on there that Yasha wasn't telling them, and whatever it was, she was determined to figure it out.

It would have to wait, however, since it appeared that Yasha would be the priority today rather than his potential relationship with _Steve_. (Who happened to walk into the Great Hall at that very moment flanked by another tall, muscular blond with much longer hair. _Steve_ had a steady gait but appeared less than confident with every step he took, as if he wasn't comfortable in his own skin. His smile was kind, as were his eyes, but there was a darkness behind them that shouldn't be there. It didn't appear to be anything _dangerous_ like what she'd asked Yasha about the night before, but it also seemed out of place on an otherwise kindly face. …Not that she was paying him all that much attention.)

/He was still asleep when I left,/ Jarvis was saying when she tuned back in to hear his explanation as to why he wasn't dragging Yasha by the ears behind him. /I didn't want to wake him. Things were a bit… _rough_ last night./

Skye nodded sagely as she took a bite of her toast. /I'll bet. It's weird, getting used to a new school even if it's _light-years_ better than Durmstrang./

Based on the pinched expression Jarvis adopted, that hadn't been what he was talking about.

/What happened?/ inquired Natasha, ready to haul ass into the Hufflepuff boys' dormitories if need be. She wouldn't say she was an _explosive_ individual, but there were few things she had much tolerance for, and people messing with the small number of friends she allowed herself to have wasn't one of them.

Jarvis glanced between her, Skye, and the twins, all of whom were watching him intently. It appeared that Natasha wasn't the only one feeling a bit protective of the fifth member of their rag-tag band. Sighing, Jarvis shrugged as if to say it was nothing, but Natasha followed his eyes as they flicked over to a blond boy sitting at the Gryffindor table with _Steve_.

/There was an…altercation last night involving Yasha and Clint,/ he began slowly. Natasha could tell he was choosing his words carefully, probably so as not to ignite her ire. He didn't need to know that it was already too late for that, so she silently let him continue. /He was positive that Winter was his friend's cat and accused Yasha of stealing her. It was… _strange_ , but he actually _knew_ her name. And her toys,/ he added in puzzlement.

/He knew her name was Winter?/ clarified Natasha. /Are you sure Yasha hadn't already mentioned it?/

/Not once,/ confirmed Jarvis with a shake of his head. /When Clint asked her name, Yasha told him it was _Zima_./

/…Which means winter./

/Yes, only he didn't want me to translate it./

Natasha raised an eyebrow. It seemed that another stitch had been added to the tapestry of Yasha's deception, the purpose of which she couldn't say she knew. /Did you get a chance to talk to Yasha after that?/

/No./ Jarvis ate a spoonful of cereal. /There wasn't time, and as I said, he wasn't awake this morning./

/He does not usually sleep so late,/ mused Wanda quietly. She didn't frequently speak her mind even around their small group, so if it was worth saying, she probably felt strongly about it. /And he was quiet yesterday./

/Natasha and I didn't hear from him for nearly the entire summer. Didn't you say his aunt told you he was ill?/ asked Jarvis with a frown.

/That's what she _said_. I thought she was lying, but he was a mess yesterday morning. You should have seen him before I made him pull himself together./

The others laughed at that, and Natasha didn't bother telling them that she wasn't kidding. Yasha was entitled to his business, so she wouldn't push the envelope on this one. That didn't mean that she was above telling Jarvis to go make sure Yasha was okay halfway through their tour of the castle, though—which he apparently was, on top of being royally pissed off that Jarvis had mentioned the little _altercation_ to Natasha at all.

When he didn't show up to dinner after having already skipped breakfast _and_ lunch, Natasha decided that would have to be a discussion for another day.

* * *

"I can't believe they let a bunch'a terrorists in here."

"Seriously, what was Fury _thinking_?"

"The Ministry probably made him do it. You know he can't say no to them."

"Sure he can. If he thinks they're gonna be a problem, that's his _job_. I don't want some Hydra trash here—my parents were so pissed when they found out."

"So were mine. They almost didn't let me come back, but by the time it all happened, it was too late for me to transfer somewhere else."

"Not like you could have anyway. They got sent to Beauxbatons, too."

Natasha eventually decided to tune out the conversation happening across the common room not because it was upsetting, but because it was undoubtedly the dumbest subject she'd heard in her life. Yes, there were a lot of terrible people at Durmstrang—both students _and_ professors—but she hardly believed any of them were smart enough to be members of a terrorist organization known for being _unknown_. Well, perhaps Schmidt would be clever enough if it weren't for the fact that his ridiculous obsession with the Dark Arts would give him away as the obvious choice.

Just thinking about their old headmaster made her grimace in distaste. There were few things she could honestly say she missed about Durmstrang. Actually, there wasn't _anything_ she missed about Durmstrang. She knew she wasn't the most emotional person—with all she'd been through, it was something she prided herself on. That didn't mean she was completely immune to some small measure of affection for the handful of people she cared enough about to call _friends_. Since they were all here with her, there was nothing left at Durmstrang that was of any use or that they couldn't get right here. There was plenty of food, a roof over their heads, professors who gave a shit about them (or so it seemed), and more room to spread out. All told, there were more advantages than disadvantages in coming to Hogwarts.

One of the latter, however, was the way some of the natives thought of Natasha and her fellow Durmstrang transplants. This wasn't the first time she'd heard them muttering under their breaths, or sometimes not even that subtly, about the quality of students Hogwarts was taking in. It was ironic that they should be so high and mighty about their school when Durmstrang was frequently the same way.

Perhaps the most entertaining part of it, though, was that they didn't seem to realize that people like Natasha _understood every word that came out of their mouths_. It was as if they believed that when the school took in students from other countries, it meant they didn't speak English. Natasha would love to tell them how sorely mistaken they were, but where would be the fun in that? She was far more partial to the idea of letting them spill their guts to use it against them in some subtle way later.

 _Huh. So that's why Yasha says he wouldn't want to get on my bad side. Smart boy._

/I should probably apologize for them./

It wasn't easy to sneak up on Natasha Romanoff, but she had to admit that this guy was pretty good to have accomplished it. She would therefore admit it to herself and no one else, however; after all, she'd been distracted, so it wasn't as though she had _actually_ been taken by surprise. Not at all.

Throwing on a smirk, she demurred, /I've learned not to let the things people say bother me. I tend not to weep over that, I'm Russian./

Her fellow Slytherin—whose name was Luke and was friends with _Steve_ —smiled politely in response before retorting, /I suppose there are worse things to be./

 _Damn right_.

Natasha had to hand it to him: Luke was on a different level than the other boys around this school. He gestured toward the seat beside her on the couch, asking permission rather than assuming that just because they were in the same house meant they could share the same physical space. That was enough to warrant him a few points in her book, so she nodded graciously and allowed him to join her.

/If you don't mind me asking, why is it that you do not speak English openly here?/ inquired Luke curiously. Natasha shrugged to say it was no big deal.

/I don't particularly care if people know I speak the language. Besides, one of my friends only speaks Russian and it's my native language, so it's easier./

/The friend from the train?/

 _What's this I'm hearing?_ /Yes, that's him./

Luke hummed in acknowledgement without saying anything else. There was a pensive expression on his face when Natasha shot him a furtive sidelong glance, logging that away to inspect more closely later.

It took a minute for Luke to turn back to her with the same benign smile on his face, abandoning the subject of Yasha. /Have you had a chance to explore the castle yet?/

/This morning,/ Natasha replied with a small smile. /It's pretty impressive./

/Anything like Durmstrang?/

That gave her pause, and Natasha thought carefully for a moment. /There are similarities, like all castles have,/ she mused with a shrug. /It's warmer here, and brighter. The people are… Well, they're at least less open with their hostility./

Something like a grimace passed over Luke's visage as he attempted to reassure her, /Not many people feel the way they do. In fact, aside from that fool Rumlow, I have not seen any conflicts between anyone from Hogwarts and your school./

/Except for the one your friend started,/ Natasha couldn't help pointing out, her voice much colder now than it had been throughout the conversation thus far. If the confused frown on his face was any indication, apparently Luke wasn't in the loop on what had happened in the Hufflepuff dormitory last night.

/What do you mean?/

/According to Jarvis, one of your friends—Clint, I think?—was causing a problem with my friend Yasha./

Luke blinked, opened his mouth, closed it, and blinked again. /I didn't know about that./

 _Obviously._ Natasha considered leaving it there, but there was some niggling instinct within her that said to push it a bit further, that there might be answers ahead if she did. /Yes. Apparently there was some confusion about Yasha's cat, Zima./

Now _that_ pulled a reaction from Luke that spoke volumes, although Natasha wasn't able to translate it into something she could understand. All she knew was that Luke's head dropped forward in an exasperated huff, and he shook it from side to side as though he couldn't believe what Clint had tried to do.

/You will have to excuse my friend,/ he murmured after a long moment, turning to look at her with remorse for Clint's actions in his gaze. /We had a friend whose cat bore a striking resemblance to Yasha's./

 _Now we're getting somewhere._ /And what happened to your friend?/

A pause. /He…died. This summer./

Despite Natasha's pride in her ability to hide her emotions well, his answer made her feel like a real bitch. It was all she could do not to flinch at the obvious pain in his words. /I'm sorry for your loss,/ she apologized quietly, watching him reel in his grief enough to form a brittle smile.

/Thank you. We are all trying to move on, but it is difficult./

/I can imagine./

They were silent for a minute; Natasha wasn't quite sure what else there was to say. Luke, however, managed to compose himself enough to guide the conversation in another direction that was less painful than where they'd already gone—which was to say the _end of it_.

/I'm sure it will be different here than at Durmstrang,/ he began as he stood up, /but perhaps it will be better than what you left behind./

Natasha shrugged one shoulder. /So far, it already is./

Luke's smile was kind when he genuinely told her, /I am glad./

When they parted ways for the evening, Luke moving towards the boys' dormitories while Natasha remained on the couch for a while longer, it was pleasant. The conversation on the other side of the common room had continued, however, the verbal abuses against her old school and the other students growing worse and worse.

Natasha was left staring into the flames, alone without minding it. She had her small group of friends. She didn't feel the need to prove anything to these people who were so suspicious of them. Let them talk.


	8. Double-Blind (2015)

**A/N: Please read through the end of "Reclamation" before reading this one-shot.**

Double-Blind (2015)

Nat said he needed to have more confidence in himself.

Sam said it would be good for him to broaden his horizons.

Clint said he desperately needed to get laid.

Bucky was pretty tired of hearing the majority of his friends telling him how he was supposed to live his life. There were days when he was able to remind himself that they just wanted what was best for him, but then he got the overwhelming desire to tell them he didn't appreciate everyone giving him shit for his choices.

Had he thought about dating in the past? Of course. Had he done anything about it? Not really. There were many reasons for it, not least of which being that it never seemed to be the right time. When he was finally interested enough in girls to consider dating or anything of a romantic nature, he'd been pretending to be Yasha Smirnov and didn't want to get involved with someone who didn't _really_ know who he was. Then he'd been thrown into a whirlwind of grief when his family died, and there was so much to do with getting S.H.I.E.L.D. up and running that his priorities hadn't really included going on dates. After they'd graduated, he spent a lot of his time throwing himself into his work and getting things done, so finding someone hadn't been on his radar then either.

Nat, of course, had only shown him mercy until they left school. Then it was almost obscene how many people she tried to get him to go on a date with—not all of whom he was really convinced she knew as well as she said she did. There was the witch who worked in their Hogwarts outreach office first, then some Russian girl who was apparently a friend of Nat's foster family back in Moscow. Quite a few of the potential witches hadn't actually come with a description beyond just being _someone I know you'll like, don't you trust me, Yasha?_

Needless to say, Bucky never took her up on any of her offers.

It had become something of a contentious point between them, and Nat had played dirty by getting their other friends to weigh in on the situation. Steve refused to take sides, simply stating that he thought Bucky should do what he felt comfortable with and nothing more because he was the _best_ best friend a guy could ask for. T'Challa had also decided to keep his nose out of it, but that may have been more due to the fact that he was spending all of his time in Wakanda and wasn't really up to date on trivial matters like Bucky's love life anymore. Everyone else, however, decided to contribute to the shit show somehow, usually to tell him he should get out there and take a chance.

Thor had instigated a rather interesting conversation about how he had realized that Jane was _The One_ and what a blessing it was to find that person—which had ended abruptly when Loki _accidentally_ set fire to one of the classrooms during a routine demonstration of how dragons protected their eggs.

Skye had given him _way too much information, holy shit,_ about how her budding relationship with Scott Lang when they were in school had turned out pretty well even though it hadn't worked out in the long run—until they'd thankfully been interrupted by Nat informing her that the servers had crashed for some reason. (To this day, Bucky was refuting claims that he'd had something to do with it.)

Clint had sat him down to have a conversation about the birds and the bees, but Bucky nipped that in the bud so thoroughly that the former was left with a bloody nose by the end.

All in all, the pep talks he'd been subjected to weren't exactly going his way or making him much more comfortable with the idea of actually going on a date the way everyone was trying to convince him to.

However, Bucky liked to think he was a smart person. He was nineteen years old, graduated from Hogwarts, and owned his own nonprofit organization. He spoke with witches, wizards, and Muggles from all walks of life and convinced some _very_ high-profile people to donate money to their cause. He was no dummy, so he knew that there would be no getting them off his back until he consented to go on _one_ date.

" _One_ , Nat," he warned when her face lit up at the prospect of finding him a match.

She batted a hand at him dismissively and spun around in her office chair to look out the window. "Sure, Yasha. Now let me think."

Her reaction alone was almost enough to get Bucky to renege on the whole thing, but he bit back the words in the face of her obvious excitement. If one night of his discomfort made her so damn happy, well…at least it was just one night.

"Try not to make it anyone too weird like some of the ones you've tried to throw at me before, okay?" he sighed, slumping into the chair across from her desk in defeat.

"They haven't been _that_ bad," Nat snorted, whirling back around with a shrug. "They just haven't been your _type_."

Bucky's eyebrows practically flew into the stratosphere. "I didn't realize I even _had_ a type."

"Please, _everyone_ has a type."

"Do enlighten me, oh wise matchmaker."

Smirking, Nat rolled her eyes before describing, "Well, it would have to be someone quiet and sweet, because I don't think you could deal with a woman who reminded you too much of your mother on a daily basis—no offense."

Bucky frowned as he slowly replied, "None taken…I think…"

"And they'd _have_ to be smart. There's no way you'd hit it off with anyone without a brain between their ears. Tall, but maybe not _too_ tall, with fashion sense but not so much that they aren't comfortable. Not bothering with hair or eye color—you don't care about that sort of thing."

The more she rambled on about what kind of person she should set him up with, the more unnerved Bucky grew over the whole situation. He honestly hadn't done much conscious thinking about what he would be attracted to in another person, but given that Nat was essentially describing the way _he_ generally tended to act, he couldn't say she was _wrong_. Unless he was around his friends, he was more subdued and aware of his politeness levels (an old holdout from the days when he'd been expected to make a good impression for the sake of his family's appearance). He didn't really care about height or hair or eyes or whatever, but being with someone who was obviously uncomfortable in what they were wearing sounded like a pain in the ass—she could wear jeans and a T-shirt for all Bucky cared and it would be just fine.

 _Okay, so maybe she's got a point._

"So, who's it going to be?" he inquired with only a mild sense of dread when Nat fell silent and simply surveyed him closely. She didn't answer right away, but when she did, it was with a grin that didn't really bode well for Bucky.

"Now, Yasha, where would be the fun in me just _telling_ you?"

Eyes widening, Bucky exclaimed, "No! _No_ blind dates. Not doing it."

"Come on, it'll be fun."

"Yeah, for _you_."

"Okay, yes," admitted Nat without losing one ounce of determination, "but every time I try to introduce you to the person _first_ , you cut and run before she's said three words to you."

"There's usually a reason for that," Bucky pointed out, trying not to think about a few choice examples.

Nat shrugged in a way that said she wasn't going to deny that, but then her expression turned a bit more serious. "I wouldn't try to make you go out with someone I _know_ you wouldn't like," she murmured, all traces of her smirk gone in the face of his reluctance. "Just trust me, Yasha. Please?"

He should have said no. He _wanted_ to say no, but that last statement made a sucker out of him.

Which was how, two days later, he ended up standing outside his favorite Thai restaurant not too far from S.H.I.E.L.D. He'd been telling himself all day that he could do this and it wouldn't be too bad, but nothing seemed to help. Even dressing up in an outfit that made him look damn good (not a suit, but nice slacks and a well-cut polo that Peggy said brought out the color of his eyes) didn't improve his mood. This wasn't the _worst_ he'd ever felt, but it certainly made him nervous in ways he hadn't been since he was in his sixth year and the world was crashing down around his ears.

 _Grow up, Barnes. It's just a date. If it doesn't work out, you can just not see her again and tell Nat it was a dud. No big deal._

Sighing, Bucky gathered all his strength as he opened the door and stepped into the restaurant. It wasn't terribly busy for a Saturday night, and he wasn't quite sure whether that was a good thing or not. On the one hand, any awkwardness wouldn't be witnessed by very many people; on the other, there wasn't much to look at that might take his attention away from that awkwardness.

 _Unless you actually hit it off, then there won't be any._

However, those odds never went in his favor, and it didn't appear that tonight would be any different. Bucky's eyes searched around the dining room until he spotted the table where Nat had said his date would be waiting. As she'd told him, someone was already seated with her back to him when he made his way over. There was something familiar about her from behind, but Bucky didn't think much of it until he came around the table and found that it was—

"Wanda?"

Sure enough, Wanda Maximoff's gaze snapped up to him from where she had been studiously examining the menu with just as much shock as Bucky figured he must be exhibiting.

"Bucky?" she inquired, blinking a few times. Her face was starting to turn a bit pink, but Bucky wouldn't judge her for it when his own was warming up.

 _Nat, I'm gonna kill you._

"Uh…" Bucky cleared his throat, pointing at the seat opposite Wanda. "Are you…waiting for someone?"

Grimacing, Wanda nodded. "Nat set me up on a blind date."

 _Yup. Gonna kill her._

"Same," he sighed, plopping down in the chair with an apologetic smile. "Looks like we got played."

She actually laughed a bit at that and tucked some errant strands of hair behind her ear in what Bucky knew to be a nervous motion. "Yes, it looks that way…"

They descended into a more awkward silence than Bucky could remember ever having between the two of them, even including when they had hardly known each other those first few weeks at Durmstrang. Just as he'd thought, there wasn't really much in the way of people-watching he could do, so they were stuck trying to figure out if they should be looking at each other or the menus or the décor or the table or _what the hell their eyes should be doing_.

After what felt like an eternity, Wanda scooted her chair back and murmured, "Maybe it would be better if we just—"

"Had dinner?" blurted out Bucky, watching her freeze in place to look at him like he was nuts. He cleared his throat again and shrugged bashfully. "I mean, we're already here. It's dinnertime. So…"

The silence stretched a long moment before Wanda slowly returned to her seat without taking her eyes off him. "Sure," she eventually agreed, pulling her menu closer. "We can do that."

So they did. And it was the most awkward, uncomfortable experience Bucky thought he'd ever had— _including_ all the ridiculous events he'd had to attend as son of the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic. They made _small talk_ , and not even the kind that coworkers did when their entire relationship was based on what happened at work. The worst part was that they were _friends_ —they should be able to do more than just that. Instead they merely held a few stilted half-conversations about how it was a nice night (it was) and if they had anything fun planned for the weekend (they didn't).

Each time their server came over felt like being rescued, only to be dumped right back in the middle of the ocean a minute later when they walked away. At least it seemed like Wanda felt similarly: she was making eye contact with him so infrequently that it reminded him of how she used to act when they hadn't been friends for very long. He assumed he probably wasn't doing much better, to be honest.

By the time they'd gotten through dinner and left the restaurant, standing self-consciously out on the sidewalk as they vacillated over what to say next, Bucky's nerves were shot. He'd already decided that the first thing he was doing when he got home was text Nat to tell her that he was _never_ doing this again.

"So…this was fun." Wanda tried to smile despite how flat they both knew it was falling.

For his part, Bucky couldn't help snorting and apologetically retorting, "No, it wasn't."

That made her laugh a bit. "No," she agreed with a wry smile, "it wasn't."

The tension that had hovered in the air around them all evening shattered just like that. Then they were both laughing at the complete ridiculousness of the entire situation until Bucky was too breathless to speak. Thankfully, Wanda had it in hand.

"Let's agree not to do this again?" she proposed, smiling to show that it was nothing personal. Bucky returned the gesture with another chuckle.

"Yeah, it's probably for the best." When Wanda made to say goodnight, however, he interrupted to ask, "Do you want to watch a movie or something? Steve and Peggy are out on date-night too, so…" He trailed off with a shrug.

Wanda hummed noncommittally before inquiring in a tone reminiscent of Nat at her most manipulative, "Will there be chocolate involved?"

Grinning, Bucky held out his arm with an exaggerated flourish for her to take hold of. "There's _always_ chocolate involved if I have something to say about it."

"Then I'm in," she agreed, looping her arm through his and pausing with a slight frown. "Wait. What are we going to tell Natasha about…all this?"

"I say we don't tell her anything and let her stew in her own juices for a few days."

Given how quickly Wanda agreed to that, Bucky had to wonder if there wasn't a _little bit_ of an evil streak in his seemingly innocent friend. He'd have to log that away for future reference.


	9. A Day in the Life (2015)

**A/N: Please read chapter one ("Living Legend") of "Risen from the Requiem" before reading this one-shot. This one is a bit different, as an AO3 user requested a glance into what Skye's life was like. I hope you enjoy it!**

A Day in the Life (2015)

Some days, Skye wasn't sure why she'd decided to work at S.H.I.E.L.D. after graduating from Hogwarts. After all, she'd been offered a spot at Stark Industries in their technology department—a position that had her mouth watering at the prospect of all the new equipment she'd get her hands on before anyone else. There was also the tiny, insignificant detail that she would make twice her current salary working for Stark. That was always nice.

Then there were days like today that came along to remind her that she'd made the right decision if for no other reason than the sheer entertainment factor.

It had been a shitty morning: she'd overslept when the alarm she apparently didn't set hadn't gone off, didn't have time to eat or do more with her hair than throw it in a messy bun, and had to Apparate back to her apartment in London three times to pick up stuff she'd forgotten in her mad dash to get to work at something resembling _on time_. Usually she would spend the day in her office, working on the website and keeping the technology up to date—but, of course, not even _that_ went as planned. The technology instructor had called out with a family emergency, which meant Nat barged into her office five minutes after she got there to ask (slash order) her to take over for the day.

Most of the time, Skye stayed positive. She got up, went to work, did her job, and then spent a quiet evening practicing her hacking skills or hanging out with friends. Nothing a typical recent graduate wouldn't do.

Today, however, she was pretty sure the first person to give her shit was going to get a wand up their ass.

"Miss Johnson, I think my computer's busted."

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Skye approached Ben Grimm's terminal and asked, "What's wrong with it?"

Frowning in frustration, their newest teenage tenant huffed, "All these little boxes keep popping up. When I click on them, they don't go away—they just make more."

 _This is so not what I needed today._

"Let me see," she sighed, nudging him aside to take a closer look. When her suspicions were confirmed, her face went as flat as her voice. "What site were you on?"

"The one you were showing us."

Given that some of the other kids started giggling at how quick he was to tell her that, Skye figured she was justified in calling bullshit.

But that wouldn't be much fun, so she smiled a toothy grin instead. "You know, there's actually a little trick I haven't taught you guys yet."

Ben blinked at her in feigned confusion. "A trick?"

"Yup," confirmed Skye, opening a new web browser even though there had to be at least twelve thousand others already papering the desktop background. They could deal with the virus later. "It's called looking up your history—it tells you the websites you've been to and anything you've downloaded, sometimes going back _years_. Muggles figured out how to store pretty much everything. Awesome, huh?"

Swallowing hard, Ben's eyes darted to the computer and back as he timidly replied, "Yeah...awesome..."

* * *

"It's not like I _blame_ him for looking at porn, you know? He's a teenager—it's, like, expected!"

Bucky wordlessly raised an eyebrow at her, to which Skye rolled her eyes.

"You're a special case," she argued dismissively. "You had shit to deal with. And you'd probably just look up cat porn, anyway."

"You know, if I were a smaller person, I'd probably take offense to that," he sniffed mildly, taking an exaggerated yet somehow dignified gulp of his butterbeer. Clint, on the other hand, was grinning widely.

"If you were a smaller person, y-"

"Finish that sentence and I will _end you_ , Barton."

Skye shared a smirk with Nat at their antics, the latter chiming in, "It's nothing to be ashamed of, Yasha. Everyone has a kink."

Muttering something about needing better friends, Bucky flipped them all off and stood to get another round of drinks. They ordinarily had more of a group on their Friday night outings (which Bucky frequently dodged because he preferred to work himself into an early grave), but Steve and Jarvis were working late and Wanda had gone to see Pietro play in the match against Romania. (Based on the live-texting of the game she was putting in their group text box, it wasn't going well for the Sokovian side.) Sam had almost been tempted but eventually decided it wasn't worth risking the wrath of his mother by not showing up to the dinner he'd promised to be present for.

Ultimately, it probably turned out being a good thing that there were fewer of them, because Skye really didn't need more guffaws and jeering as a server delivered a drink for her, paid for by an admittedly super cute guy at the bar.

"I would give him a nine out of ten for his looks, but the lack of creativity earns him a solid seven," assessed Nat, surreptitiously eyeing him as he clearly tried to act cool about not looking in their direction.

"Give the guy a break," grunted Clint through a mouthful of food. Skye would never admit it, but she admired how he was able to cram five chicken wings in at once while preparing a sixth and sometimes attempted it in the privacy of her own apartment where no one could laugh at her. "It's not as easy as it looks."

Smirking, Nat innocently inquired, "And how often have you tried that little number?"

"Did I ever tell you how Thor first hooked up with Jane?" Bucky snorted as he returned with their drinks, catching on to the conversation. If Clint's warning glare was anything to go by, this was going to be good.

"You weren't even _there_ ," he mumbled under his breath with a scowl firmly in place.

Unmoved, Bucky regaled them, "Third year, the guys get back from their first trip to Hogsmeade and tell me Clint sent a drink to Jane at the Three Broomsticks."

"You didn't!" Skye laughed incredulously. Of all the people she thought Clint would go for, Jane Foster definitely wasn't high on the list. She'd personally been harboring the belief that he had a thing for Natasha but (intelligently) didn't act on it. Jane was just too… _nice_.

"It gets better," continued Bucky, grinning in the face of Clint's embarrassment. "He didn't bother to give her a name, so all the server had to go on was _the guy with the blond hair_ —out of him, Steve, and Thor, she comes over and thanks _Thor_."

"Who didn't bother to tell her who actually sent— _and paid for_ —the damn drink," grumbled Clint, a tiny smirk twitching up the corner of his mouth despite the residual bitterness.

The look on his face was priceless and sent them all into a fit of laughter. When they surfaced, Skye took a brave sip of the firewhiskey she'd been offered and nodded once in determination before standing up. "Well, I guess it would be rude not to at least make sure I've got the right guy, right?" she teased, ignoring the birds Clint flipped her in favor of Bucky and Nat's encouragement.

The guy was even better looking up close. It was a good thing talking to guys, as friends or otherwise, had always come easy to her. Of course, she went on plenty of dates; she didn't even need Nat to set her up the way she constantly tried to do with Bucky until her Wanda idea crashed and burned last month. It wasn't that Skye got a kick out of playing the field or anything, but there was just something fun about trying out a romance to see if it stuck—everything with Scott Lang had fallen through when he got arrested barely a week out of Hogwarts (which really wasn't a surprise), and most of the other short-term relationships she had didn't amount to much either, but it was enjoyable to see what was out there and give it a shot. She was open-minded, that's all.

"Firewhiskey, huh?" she asked as soon as she was within earshot. When her admirer glanced up with an adorably hopeful smile, she coyly continued, "Pretty gutsy drink choice. Most people don't start out so strong."

Shrugging, he replied, "Well, you look like the kind of person who can handle the tough stuff. Lincoln Campbell," he added in introduction.

"Skye Johnson," she returned, taking a seat at the bar and ignoring the wolf whistle from the direction of her friends' table.

What started out as a terrible day actually turned out all right.


	10. Beat Down (2016)

**A/N: We now return you to your regularly scheduled angst. Make sure you read chapter five ("Playground Politics") of "Risen from the Requiem" first!**

Beat Down (2016)

/You don't think so?/

/I doubt it, Pietro./

Wanda could hear her twin scoff over the phone and smirked, shaking her head as she shut down her laptop. Some things never changed, namely how optimistic Pietro was about the Sokovian Quidditch team's chances of winning the World Cup, which…well, Wanda didn't need to know much about the sport to know that wasn't likely to happen within the next few decades. Or centuries. Or…ever.

/You should have more faith in me,/ pouted Pietro on the other end of the line. /Most sisters are more supportive of their big brothers./

Snorting, Wanda didn't bother resisting the urge to eviscerate his argument: /First of all, twelve minutes does not make you my big brother. Second, it would take a lot more than faith./

/Cruel, baby sister. So cruel./

/You have been hanging out with Stark too much./

Pietro wisely didn't try to argue with that, instead pointing out, /Stranger things have happened in our lives./

Wanda hummed in wordless agreement. That was certainly the case, and things only got stranger as time wore on. Working at S.H.I.E.L.D. certainly didn't help—or, rather, being around one _famous Bucky Barnes_ didn't. She had nothing against him; it wasn't his fault that the Wizarding world revolved around him. Still, there were times when she wondered if she would ever truly be surprised by anything ever again.

/All right,/ sighed Wanda after allowing Pietro to rattle off a recap of his newest strategy (which she had no doubt she'd forget as soon as they hung up if she hadn't already). /I should probably go./

/So early? You are getting weak in your old age,/ teased Pietro, the grin audible in his tone. Wanda rolled her eyes good-naturedly even though he couldn't see her.

/Well, for _some_ of us, it isn't California time, and we've already put in a full day of work./

Tutting, Pietro capitulated with a minimum of jeering, obviously able to tell just how tired she was from the sound of her voice. All of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s employees were better rested now that they didn't have dozens of traumatized child survivors from Belgium to constantly monitor, but it would likely be a while before they were all back in top shape. It hadn't taken long before she'd realized she was desperately in need of more than four hours of sleep a night, however unlikely that was to happen.

At least Pietro understood and said goodnight shortly after, allowing Wanda to pack up her purse and head for the door. Most of the lights in the first-floor corridors were turned off, only the security lights illuminating her way to the front entrance. From the looks of things, even Bucky had already left for the evening, which was saying something when Natasha frequently had to pry him out of his desk chair with reminders of his dependent cat at home.

Wanda smiled at the thought as she stepped outside and locked the door behind her. Just a quick walk to the alley and then she could Apparate home to spend the evening getting acquainted with some quality personal time. Well, perhaps it would really only be collapsing into a ball on the couch and basking in the glory that was not having to talk to anyone for the next twelve hours, but she still counted it.

Of course, the fact that she was hoping for it meant she wasn't going to get it. The moment she rounded the corner to the alley the employees used to Apparate, hidden from Muggle eyes, she stopped dead in her tracks to see a group of men kicking a prone figure on the ground. From the looks of it, the latter was unconscious.

For a split second, she almost turned and walked away. It appeared that they were Muggles, which meant that she couldn't use magic on them and certainly wasn't capable of physically handling all of them at once. Then one of them pulled out something long and slim—a wand or a knife, she couldn't tell in the shadows—and her mind was made up for her.

Wanda narrowed her eyes and drew her wand from the inside of her jacket, approaching silently so as not to alert them to her presence. They were too concerned with kicking the life out of their target to worry about her, and she winced at the thought of what that poor man's ribs would feel like after enduring such a beating.

 _Stupefy!_ she thought, nodding in satisfaction when the tallest of the group was thrown backward into the brick wall on the other side of the alley. The others all stopped and turned toward her, which was the moment she realized she _knew_ the man on the ground.

Bucky was a mess. He was lying face-down, blood gushing from his nose and dribbling out of a cut on his forehead. Bruises were already blossoming on his cheekbones; both of his eyes were colored black and purple. And, just as she'd suspected, he was out cold.

She couldn't help it: her mind automatically shot back to her seventh year at Hogwarts—watching Bucky get thrown off his broom in the middle of a Quidditch match—hearing their friends talking about his broken back and his bruised skin and how lucky he was to be alive—

Wanda reacted immediately. All of the Muggles went flying through the air simultaneously, landing halfway down the alley in a heap. She stalked towards them, but apparently the sight of her fury was enough for them to realize it wasn't worth the fight. They scrambled to their feet and were gone before she had a chance to give them what they _truly_ deserved.

She almost went after them.

She almost magically tore them limb from limb.

She almost taught them never to mess with her friends.

She almost committed an even worse crime against Muggles than those outlined in the sections of the International Statute of Secrecy she'd already broken.

Wanda almost did a lot of things, yet in the end, she found herself kneeling by Bucky's side with her hands hovering over him. He was so wrecked that she didn't even know if touching him was going to make things better or worse—his breathing was heavy and labored, and there was a wheezing in his chest that definitely didn't sound natural or healthy.

Thinking quickly, Wanda decided it was best not to move him just yet and dug around in her purse for her cell phone, finding Steve in her contacts and hitting his number with trembling fingers. Whatever happened next, she would need some backup. Two rings had never seemed so long, and her relief was almost a tangible thing when he picked up.

"Hey, Wanda. What's u—"

"Bucky was attacked," she interjected immediately, dispensing with the pleasantries.

Steve reacted just as quickly, adopting what Bucky called his _Auror Voice_ as he demanded, "Where are you?" She could hear movement from the other end of the call and guessed that Steve was preparing to leave wherever he was.

"We're in the alley beside S.H.I.E.L.D. I'm not…" She shook her head, grimacing as Bucky coughed wetly without waking. "There were four of them, they were… They attacked him, and it's _bad_ , Steve. I really think he needs to go to the hospital."

There was a pause on the other end, then Steve firmly ordered, "Don't move, I'll be right there."

He appeared a few feet away almost instantly and crouched down beside her to survey the situation with a grim expression that clearly said he wanted to go after the thugs just as much as she had. He didn't, though. They didn't take Bucky to the hospital either, in spite of Wanda's insistence that it was the safest option. Steve, however, was adamant: the last thing Bucky would want was Pierce finding out he'd been attacked by Muggles. The press would have a field day, and it would do nothing but invalidate the interview Bucky had just given about the most recent injustice from the Ministry.

So they kept quiet. They made sure no one came down the alley, whether friend or foe, Muggle or wizard. Steve gingerly ran his wand over Bucky's torso, muttering some healing spells that Aurors were required to know for minor medical emergencies in the field. Carefully—so very carefully—Steve hooked his arms under Bucky's shoulders and legs to hoist him into his arms while Wanda retrieved Bucky's abandoned messenger bag.

Steve told her she could go home to the personal time that had been calling her name only minutes ago, that he could take it from there.

No amount of personal time, she'd indignantly replied, was worth it—not when they spent the next half hour mopping up the blood from Bucky's face or putting ice packs on his ribs or propping him up on his pillows to make it easier for him to breathe. Even when Steve finally convinced her to go home hours later, exhausted and worried, she couldn't bring herself to regret one moment.


	11. Bond of Grief (2012)

**A/N: Please read chapter one of "Reclamation" before this one-shot. Time to take a closer look at the OCs I never thought I'd love writing so much!**

Bond of Grief (2012)

Tatiana never really wanted kids. It wasn't that she didn't _like_ them—she did. In moderation. She just never really saw herself as much of a maternal figure, especially not when it came to raising her own children. It was nice to hold a friend's baby or watch their kids playing during visits, but Tatiana had always been content just as she was.

Her family, however, was another matter. Her parents had impressed upon her from a young age that getting married and having children was something everyone just _did_ , that there wasn't really another option out there. They didn't start pushing until she was well into her twenties with no serious suitors, though. Then it seemed to be all they could talk about when she would visit them in St. Petersburg— _have you and Mikhail talked about getting married, when are you finally going to tie the knot, are you sure you want him to be the father of your children_ … The inquisition would go on and on and _on_ until she finally blurted out that none of that was even on her radar. She had been seeing Mikhail since they were at Durmstrang, but marriage couldn't have been further from her mind when she was in her twenties. It wasn't as if she had the biological clock ticking away that so many of her friends panicked over.

That statement was always met with the same thing: stunned silence, then outright _rage_.

How could a woman not want to have children?

How could their daughter not want to give them grandchildren?

Why couldn't she just be _normal_?

No amount of arguing would assuage their frustration with her choices, not even when she tried to tell them that at least her sister might be able to give them what they were looking for when she couldn't be bothered with it. Anya was always quiet during that part of the conversation, content to be left out of it, which was something that frustrated Tatiana to no end. Her sister had already been married for _years_ by that point and had yet to have a child; she'd always assumed Anya was like her and didn't want any children, although they never actually addressed the subject, at least not with one another.

Tatiana did make a few concessions, meager as they were to her parents. She married Mikhail—not that that bore much weight when there was no baby to go with the ceremony. It wasn't a passionate affair, but then, nothing with Mikhail ever was. They were both far too practical to be bothered with such things; they loved each other and felt genuine emotional affection, but they weren't exactly the sort of people to go around flaunting it wherever they could. Theirs was a quiet romance, which both of them were quite content with, and they settled into the same routine as husband and wife that they had when they were just dating.

The questions never stopped. The pushing never ceased. Eventually, Tatiana gave up on her parents entirely. They went without speaking for years, right up until Anya and her husband were killed. After that, things changed. Tatiana spoke with her family again and occasionally went to visit, but they never brought up having children again. Perhaps it was the difficulty of knowing that they had lost one. Maybe they had simply learned not to take the only child they had left for granted. Whatever it was, they had never asked again, and she'd never brought it up.

Which was why, as she stood in the kitchen watching a casserole dish of macaroni and cheese bubbling in the oven, Tatiana couldn't help wondering at herself. When had she grown to view Bucky as her own? Certainly not when they agreed to take him in—that had been more of a gesture to a friend in need than a genuine desire to care for a child, teenager or not.

Bucky knew it. That much was painfully obvious. He'd been civil and understanding as Tatiana and Mikhail struggled to find the proper balance in their home once they had a new addition; it was more than she ever would have expected from one so young. Regardless, she knew that he'd had no illusions about what they were to each other: a means to an end. Bucky needed to go to school under the radar—Tatiana and Mikhail had the perfect cover for him. They wanted to help Winifred and George—Bucky and Becca were their top priority. It was the ideal arrangement, and it had worked well thus far.

To witness Bucky's devastation when he saw that article, though… Tatiana had never felt a stab of pain so all-encompassing in her life, nor had she experienced such a strong urge to take someone in her arms and comfort them. It wasn't _maternal_ per se, but it wasn't at all like her either.

But now Tatiana and Mikhail were the closest to family that Bucky had left. It shouldn't have taken an assassination to make them realize that he was already a member of theirs.

/You are thinking too hard again./ Mikhail's calm voice drew her from her musings. Smiling halfheartedly, Tatiana shook her head.

/It's hard not to./

Mikhail hummed, his arm snaking around her waist as he settled his chin on her shoulder. He was a man of few words—always had been—but she knew what he wanted to convey and huffed bitterly.

/I don't know what to do for him,/ she whispered, glancing down the hall to make sure Bucky's door was still closed. It was hardly necessary: unless they called him, Bucky hadn't left his room once since the news broke. When he did emerge, it was with an air of wary exhaustion, like the world was just too much to face. Having lost a sister suddenly and tragically, Tatiana knew a little of what that was like.

/I do not think there is a great deal that _can_ be done at this point,/ admitted Mikhail with a soft sigh. /He needs time to grieve for them./

Shaking her head, Tatiana demanded, /How? He's giving himself no chance to. That face…/ She paused, trying to find the right words. /He hides behind Yasha now. Why would _Yasha Smirnov_ grieve a foreign dignitary?/

It didn't appear that Mikhail had an answer for that, both of them falling silent as they watched their dinner bake. Tatiana wasn't a fan of baked macaroni and cheese (or pasta at all, really), but she remembered Winifred mentioning it was Bucky's favorite meal and had spent an embarrassing amount of time that morning hunting down recipes rather than doing her job. If it was enough to put a smile on his face, even just for half an instant, it would be worth it.

Eventually, Mikhail straightened with a deep breath. There was a rare hesitation in his tone as he informed her, /The funeral is tomorrow./

/So soon?/ Tatiana couldn't help frowning at that, although she wasn't sure why she was surprised. One week was quick, but it wasn't unexpected: Winifred was a politician, and a well-liked one at that. It would be silly to think that they would wait longer than necessary to give her a proper sending off. Besides, it wasn't as though they knew anyone from the family was left to be picky about funeral arrangements.

/Services are first thing in the morning,/ confirmed Mikhail with a slow nod. It appeared to cost him something when he added, /I think it would be best not to attend./

Quirking an eyebrow, Tatiana inquired, /You don't think it would help him to at least get a chance to say goodbye?/

/I think he is not ready to say goodbye yet./

There really wasn't an argument for that—it was true enough.

Mikhail wasn't finished, though. /If we take him, there is a chance he will be recognized. He bears too close a resemblance to himself even in disguise. It would put him in unnecessary danger./

 _Unnecessary_ was a strong term, of which she knew he was well aware. After all, regardless of how her family had fallen apart, Tatiana would never have been held back from her sister's funeral. No amount of arguing or bitterness between her and her parents could keep her away. That had been her one chance to say goodbye to her sister and get closure.

But this wasn't a simple accident, and Bucky's situation was so much more complicated than that. So Tatiana didn't argue the way she wanted to, nodding in silent agreement. They were Bucky's guardians now, which put the burden of duty on them to have his best interests at heart even more than they had over the last couple of years. If that meant keeping him away from his own family's funeral, Tatiana couldn't imagine that Winifred or George would disagree.

If she hated herself a little bit for it, on her own conscience be it.

Mikhail didn't say anything else, but the way his hand lingered on the small of her back as he left the kitchen told her he knew all that had gone through her head. They had been together far too long for him not to, just as she was cognizant of his unarticulated response: _Give it time_.

It was easier said than done, especially when Bucky reluctantly left the safety of his room when called for dinner, just like every other night. His face was devoid of all emotion as he took his seat at the table, Winter cuddled close to his chest and quite content to be there, and nodded in vague thanks at the food set in front of him.

Like the last few days, he didn't eat. He didn't even bother picking up the fork.

Tatiana exchanged a quick glance with Mikhail, whose brow was furrowed slightly in consternation that he rarely ever showed.

It grew more difficult still when Natasha showed up at the door the following day, politely asking if Yasha was home since he hadn't answered any of her owls in the last week. There was nothing Tatiana could say—how could she impress upon Natasha that things were different when she couldn't tell her how?

That was when the excuses started: _he's not feeling very well today. He had to take Winter to the vet. I sent him out for groceries, I'm not sure how long he'll be gone. He's been sick the last few days. He's out shopping for Hogwarts supplies with Mikhail._

Lie after lie after lie until Natasha stopped coming. So did her owls.

Bucky didn't seem to notice much less care about it, and his small circle of acquaintance shrank even further than it had when he was thirteen. It only served to make Tatiana more desperate to see a little of the boy he'd been a few weeks ago—not even the one she'd met in Romania, the one who hadn't spent so much time away from his family yet—so she started calling him out of his room more frequently. She'd set him to helping with the dishes or sorting through a few papers from work (all of which needed to be thrown out, but at least it kept him busy) or assisting with dinner. All the while, she kept up a steady stream of conversation, hoping he would answer back. She even tried in English, but it never really worked; most of his responses were reduced to grunts, nods, or one-word answers when he couldn't possibly manage in silence.

If she didn't know any better, Tatiana would have said Winter was surgically attached to him the whole time. If she wasn't in his lap, she was on his shoulder—if she wasn't there, she was curled up on his chest—if she wasn't _there_ , she was perched on top of his head despite how the weight must have hurt his neck. Bucky never once complained, though. In fact, he grew anxious in any of the instances where Winter _wasn't_ attached to him in some way, and Tatiana wondered (not for the first time) if he didn't need to see some sort of psychiatrist.

/He wouldn't be able to speak freely without giving away everything,/ observed Mikhail when she brought up the subject one afternoon after he got home from work. That had been a rough day—no amount of cajoling had successfully ousted Bucky from his room, nor had he eaten the breakfast or lunch she'd delivered to his door. She was getting to be an artist at baked macaroni and cheese, which was taking up every available inch of space in their freezer now.

/If it was a Muggle doctor, it wouldn't matter,/ argued Tatiana with raised eyebrows.

Mikhail shook his head. /If it was a Muggle doctor, he still wouldn't be able to say anything about the specifics of the situation. That's not closure—that's mind games./

Practical and collected as Tatiana prided herself on being much of the time, she hated him for being so sensible in that instant. Sighing, she allowed the slightest irritation to enter her tone as she insisted, /He needs help./

/Of course he does. And he will get it./

/You sound awfully sure of that./

Smiling slightly, Mikhail shrugged. /The boy is going back to Hogwarts. All the people he left behind will be there./

/He won't be able to tell them, though,/ Tatiana pointed out sadly. Even if she wasn't the maternal sort, it had never exactly been difficult to read Bucky, and the fact that he still missed his old friends wasn't lost on either of them. If he was supposed to be Yasha, however, he wouldn't have those friends anymore. /How could he even approach them?/

/Not as he once was, no,/ admitted Mikhail with a slight frown. /But maybe their presence will help./

Tatiana hummed but didn't answer, already considering the ramifications. Being around his old friends without being able to speak with them as he once had would be torture for Bucky—he was far too emotional that way. He would need to start over; he was the same person, drowning in grief though he was, so it wasn't impossible that he could make friends with them once again.

 _But would they recognize him if he tried?_

That was a question for another day, and at this point, Tatiana wasn't sure she would mind so much if they did realize it was him. After all, his friends would be loyal to him; of that, Winifred and George had been absolutely positive when all this began. The problem was the Ministry: they were the ones who didn't allow correspondence, understandably so that it didn't fall into the wrong hands. Bucky's friends, though, they should be safe enough despite the niggling fear the idea of revealing his identity inspired.

Not that it was her decision. Only Bucky could choose to reclaim his friends or start over without them. Right now, it was difficult to discern which path he would take.

Of course, that didn't mean she couldn't nudge him along some. She wasn't his mother, but she was the closest he had now.

 _Time to step up, Tatiana._


	12. Lost and Found (2016)

**A/N: I learned my lesson last time and am attaching a tissue warning to this particular one-shot. Please make sure you have read through chapter seventeen of "Risen from the Requiem" first. (The chapter is the same name.)**

Lost and Found (2016)

A boy in a pet shop.

In his culture, death was not the end. It was more of a stepping-off point. You reached out with both hands, and Bast and Sekhmet led you into the green veldt where you could run forever. His father always held it as a peaceful thought.

But T'Challa was not his father, and all he could see was a boy in a pet shop.

Knee deep in a sea of blood, Steve was still staring down at Bucky where he'd pulled their best friend's head into his lap. Every now and again, he tightened his grip on Bucky's shoulder and shook gently, just to see if maybe this time it would work. It didn't.

Theirs was by no means the only tragedy here today: many lay dead or dying, there were still shrieks and cries of the frightened and the injured, and there was a hole in the ground where one of the greatest Wizarding governments in the world had stood for centuries. Although they had kept Hydra from succeeding in their goal, a heavy price had been paid to do so. Too many Muggles had seen—too many Muggles were dead to brush the situation off with a few Memory Charms and creative tales. Sirens were already wailing in the distance, rapidly approaching so that even more Muggles could bear witness to the remains of the slaughter. It would be a long cleanup; there were so many bodies to be dealt with, their blood leaking out and turning the road to slime. A foul odor rose on the breeze, stinking of death and the torment they would now endure.

Because the Hydra hadn't been the worst part. When T'Challa had received Natasha's Patronus that morning, he had thought their situation could not be grimmer—he had thought that defeating the beast would solve all ills. He had been wrong. He recognized that now, as he stood beside Steve's slumped form and watched while Bucky's lips turned blue. This, as they had once learned, was the worst. This anguish and despair, which they had all taken for granted when Bucky was returned to them once already, was more painful than any physical ailment could be.

Bucky had suffered the same fate as the Hydra agents: his chest was sliced open from Jarvis's spell, oozing blood even when the life had already fled his body. His hair, his face, his pants—everything was saturated in red so dark it was nearly black. The image swam before T'Challa's eyes, blurring back and forth between the grotesque image of grief in the here and now and the little boy he'd met all those years ago in the pet shop. That child hadn't been happy per se—there were few times when he'd truly believed Bucky found complete happiness—but he'd been kind and friendly and content with who he was. When he'd held a tiny kitten in his hands as though she meant more than the world itself, his smile had lit up the room.

They would never see that smile again, nor would they ever find happiness on the face of the boy in the pet shop.

Perhaps none of them would ever find happiness again after this day. It was hard to tell, to see past the pain squeezing his heart in its viselike grip. From the expressions on his friends' faces, it was quite possible that he was correct.

Natasha stood opposite him, her eyes locked on Bucky's face like she was waiting for him to crack an eye and grin at his own little joke on them. There was no emotion on her face, which T'Challa had learned long ago meant there were too _many_ flying through her head. It was a stark contrast to Jarvis's grief, on full display as Skye got him settled on the curb. Tears flowed freely from his reddening eyes as they took in the scene of destruction that he had a large part in creating. It wasn't his fault—that much was certain—but T'Challa could understand how he might feel that it was. Someone had to stop the Hydra, however. It couldn't be allowed to destroy more than it already had. None of them would have been there if they hadn't been willing to pay a price, specifically with their lives. They hadn't considered that it wouldn't be their own that would be at greatest risk if they won.

The rest of their friends were in various stages of shock and grief. Stark had yet to remove the helmet of his suit and was standing idly a few feet away, looking for all the world like some long forgotten robot waiting for its master's improbable return. Clint, Sam, Wanda, Thor, Peggy—they were all there, unable to look yet just as incapable of turning away. They all appeared the worse for wear, not that T'Challa assumed he looked any better, but it was more than bodily weariness that now weighed down their souls. This was a burden they had borne before and hoped never to bear again.

Perhaps it had been arrogant to believe that the bell would not toll for their friend a second time. Perhaps this was their punishment for it.

True to form, Natasha was the first to find her voice as she knelt down beside Steve and put a hand on his shoulder.

"We should get him off the street," she murmured gently, swallowing hard before she could continue. "He doesn't belong with… _them_."

She may as well have remained silent for all that Steve appeared to hear her or notice her vague gesture towards the fallen Hydra agents surrounding them. The only sign he was aware of her presence at all was the tiny motion of his arms tightening around Bucky's body, frightened that the last remnants of his oldest friend would be torn away from him.

T'Challa could not blame Steve, but when Natasha turned her eyes on him, it was impossible to refuse her silent request. Of their group of friends, they were the two who were most level-headed. They had always been logical, reasonable, collected. To some, he knew that gave them a cold appearance, but it couldn't be further from the truth. They simply knew that whatever their thoughts or feelings on a subject may have been, there was work to be done. There was always work to be done.

So, sighing softly, T'Challa went to his knees on Steve's other side and told him, "The authorities will be here soon. It would be best if he wasn't found amongst those responsible, especially after Pierce told the _Prophet_ that he was working with them."

That jarred Steve enough for his gaze to finally tear away from Bucky, and T'Challa found blue eyes glaring at him for the mere mention of Pierce's name. They were not as frightening as usual, though, missing the fire and determination that comprised Steve Rogers's very _soul_. But then, it was not so surprising: half of his soul lay at their feet, broken now beyond repair.

"Come," urged T'Challa quietly. "We can clean him up some before…"

 _Before they take him away._

He didn't have to say it—they all heard the words.

Steve looked back down, nodding numbly as the rational part of him began to slot into place. Blank and empty, he slipped his arms under Bucky's shoulders and knees, cradling him to his chest as he stood to lift him. The others made way but remained close by as Steve carried him over to the sidewalk and gently laid him in one of the few spots left unmarred by rubble or blood.

The sirens were close now; T'Challa could see the reflection of flashing red and blue lights off the windows of the buildings further down the street. He could only assume that they would take all the bodies away to store in a morgue, available for claim at some later date once they had determined the cause of this massacre. It was difficult to think about—the first time Bucky had died, they hadn't seen the body. It hadn't been their responsibility to identify him as their friend and make preparations for his funeral. Now that duty would fall to them, the only family he had left, when T'Challa still wasn't even sure how they were going to tell Steve's mother or the Petrovs.

It did not do to think about it now, however. His grief was still too near to begin formulating plans for closure. That would have to wait.

As emergency vehicles began to flood onto the street, Steve collapsed next to Bucky once more, a human wall between him and the noisy world threatening to disturb his eternal peace. He had the air of a man working on instinct alone as he removed his jacket and used a soft sleeve to gently mop the quickly drying blood from Bucky's face. Taking his example, Clint removed his own sweatshirt with an expression T'Challa hadn't seen since they were sixteen years old and laid it over Bucky's bare torso. The more the blood flaked off Bucky's skin, the more it appeared that he could merely have been sleeping. T'Challa didn't even notice the blue that had begun to color his lips anymore, and the stains of red on his cheeks looked almost inappropriately healthy. If it weren't for the way his chest was still bleeding sluggishly underneath Clint's sweatshirt, T'Challa would have been fooled.

The cough didn't startle any of them at first, just another sound of discomfort amidst the sea of suffering around them. Then T'Challa realized where it was coming from.

Bucky spasmed on the sidewalk, his head bouncing off the concrete as wet, rattling coughs racked his body. A shudder passed through him—a wheeze—a _breath_ —

Based on Steve's incredulous expression when he touched his fingers to Bucky's neck, there was even a pulse.

"Oh, my God," whispered Sam, diving into the small space between Bucky and the wall of the building to press his palms firmly against the wound on Bucky's chest. "A little help here, guys!"

T'Challa would never remember the details of what happened next, only knowing a flurry of motion and hands and muscle spasms and relief and a cry of pain and a fatal wound and a miracle and _life_.


	13. Together (2002)

**A/N: This can be read without reading anything else! Let's have a bit of little Steve and Bucky again after that last one-shot. For anyone familiar with the video game series "Kingdom Hearts," that's what Bucky is talking about here. And yes, I am still bitter about the same thing he's talking about sixteen years later. Just saying.**

Together (2002)

"I don't get why they had to make Donald your party member. He sucks."

 _Maybe you didn't set him up right,_ Bucky pretended Steve answered. He rolled his eyes, mashing the green triangle button on his controller.

"I _did_ set 'im up right. I said to use potions in a 'mergency, and this is a 'mergency."

That was true enough. Bucky was getting really tired of the siren wailing in the background of his boss fight while his health gauge flashed red over and over and _over_ again. He'd stockpiled all his potions for this battle (and even a few hi-potions because he was _smart_ like that), but he'd run out in the first few minutes. Unfortunately, his party members were totally useless even though they should have still had some items left—he was on his last potion and was trying to save it for when he _really_ needed it. Goofy wasn't the one who annoyed him: even though he was crap at using items, his strength was higher than anyone else in the party. Donald, on the other hand, wasn't strong and therefore had nothing good going for him.

"Shoulda used Tarzan," lamented Bucky as the big green lizard on the screen hit him with another laser beam. At that exact moment, Donald threw a potion—

Too late. The laser hit him an instant too soon, sending him to the "continue" screen. Again.

Sighing, Bucky dropped the controller to his side and shook his head. He wasn't the kind of person to get angry over dying—it was just a video game—but he was still getting tired of this level. Who thought it was a good idea to give you the super hard boss _before_ your magical character got the power to heal you? _Stupid._

A glance at the clock told him it was almost dinnertime, not that he thought they would be doing much for it. His mom had said something about ordering takeout since she'd made dinner for them _and_ the Rogerses for most of the week. Sarah kept telling her she didn't need to, but she did it anyway. His mom got home from the Ministry, made dinner, and then they went over to eat it with Sarah while Bucky kept Steve company.

It wasn't his fault. It was just a really tough winter.

Steve was on his bed, huddled under at least a dozen blankets yet still shivering. His usually pale face was even whiter than normal; when Bucky looked close, he could see the veins under his skin. Purple rings rounded his closed eyes, looking like shiners even though Steve hadn't been in any fights (at least not for the last couple of weeks). He usually caught _something_ during the winter, but it was really bad this year. He'd gotten sick the day after Christmas and had been sleeping for the last three days straight. Bucky's dad said not to disturb him, but he maybe didn't listen all the time? Steve didn't wake up anyway, so he didn't see what the big deal was.

It had been a week of one-sided conversations and pretending Steve was listening, playing video games and pretending Steve was watching, doing homework (because their teachers were _mean_ and gave them homework over winter break) and pretending Steve was finishing his too. There was a lot of pretending going on, but Bucky was starting to get really worried. And bored.

Bucky staggered to his feet, his knees popping from sitting criss-cross on the floor for so long, and glanced at Steve before heading out of the room and down the stairs.

He heard voices before he entered the kitchen and stopped, biting his lip. His mom and dad always said it was rude to eavesdrop, that you should respect people talking about something that they might not want you to know. The second he heard Sarah's hushed voice saying Steve's name, though, it went out the window. He was _about_ to go into the kitchen anyway, so it wasn't _technically_ eavesdropping if he just walked _really_ slow. Right?

"His fever's gone up since yesterday," sighed Sarah, almost too soft for Bucky to hear her.

He caught the scraping sound of a chair being pulled out, then Bucky's mom asked, "And he's not responding to any of the potions you've tried?"

"Nope. Never has."

Pause. "I've never seen anything like it."

"He's stubborn like that." Sarah let out a hollow laugh, and it wasn't a happy sound. "He's like his father that way."

Bucky winced. Mr. Rogers died almost a year ago now, and he heard his mom and dad talking a lot about how hard Sarah was trying to get past it for Steve's sake. He never told Steve about it, of course; that would be a big mistake, especially since Steve _hated_ when people felt sorry for him. Still, Steve had been sicker this year than usual, and Bucky could hear just how tired Sarah was between losing her husband and now having to deal with Steve.

"You've tried the Muggle remedies, too?"

"Of course. Nothing's worked—it doesn't make him any worse, but he doesn't get better either. If his fever doesn't break by tomorrow, I think I'm just going to have to take him to the hospital again."

"What did his doctor say yesterday?"

Sarah made a noise like an angry cat. "He said it's probably just a flu bug going around and to make sure he stays hydrated. Newsflash: I'm a fucking nurse. I could've diagnosed that _myself_ and saved the insurance company the trouble of paying for the damn visit."

"I can't believe he didn't prescribe anything," Bucky's dad chimed in quietly.

"Most of the flu stuff just treats the symptoms anyway, and we can use Tylenol for that."

"Great, water and Tylenol."

"I know, right."

The grown-ups fell silent after that, the only noise coming from the kitchen being Becca's little baby whines; Bucky figured that was probably as much as he was going to get. He almost walked into the room, his stomach growling at the smell of Chinese food he only just realized was wafting through the first floor, but he retreated back to Steve's bedroom instead. He hadn't moved while Bucky had been gone.

"Okay, time to get up," he ordered sternly, jumping on the bed and bouncing a few times.

Steve didn't stir.

"Come _on_ , you _punk_ ," whined Bucky, shaking his shoulder roughly. Well, he figured it was where his shoulder was supposed to be since all he could feel was a million layers of blankets in the way. "Your mom's worried, and so's my mom and dad. Get _up_."

A sniffle, then nothing.

"I'm gonna beat the game without you, and I'mma tell you all about the end and _spoil_ it for you. You'd better get up and tell me not to."

None of the bajillion things Bucky threatened appealed to Steve enough to wake him, and by the time his dad came to get him for dinner, Bucky had all but given up. He'd just have to marathon-play all night and tell Steve he wouldn't have missed it if he wasn't asleep the whole time.

As it turned out, he didn't get the chance. Sarah said Steve's fever hit one-oh-five an hour after dinner and took him to the hospital, where Bucky wasn't allowed to see him for the next two days. It wasn't a big deal at first—Steve had been in the hospital for two _weeks_ before—but Bucky got more and more worried that he wasn't going to come home as time went on. His mom and dad wouldn't tell him anything except that Steve was really sick, which he kinda figured out on his own, and that he needed to be patient. He knew they talked to Sarah on the phone every night since she refused to leave the hospital and apparently they were in a place where only family was allowed (which didn't make sense to Bucky because they _were_ family but _they_ couldn't go). There was still no news they were willing to tell him, though, and no news had to be bad news.

By the time they finally said they could go visit Steve, it was the day before school was going to start up again and Bucky was almost vibrating out of his skin with worry. He hadn't been able to focus on video games; his mom didn't even try to get him to do his homework after it took him an hour just to wrap his head around one math problem. He maybe sort of accidentally set the kitchen curtains on fire after the second day of no news—his first magical accident since Becca's run-in with Bucky Bear. Needless to say, when they told him to get ready to go, he was almost in the car before they got all the words out.

Steve looked a little better when they got to his room, although he was hooked up to so many machines Bucky wanted to make a joke about him being a robot now. He was still pale, still looked tired, but his smile was a real one when he met Bucky's eyes. While their parents spoke quietly in the doorway, Bucky hopped up on the side of the bed that didn't have any wires and held out Bucky Bear, who he'd been clutching to his chest the whole way over.

"He missed you," Bucky declared perfunctorily.

Steve's grin wasn't as bright as usual, but it reached his tired eyes as he took the proffered toy. "You're not gonna start cryin', are you?"

"I don't _cry_."

"What about when Becca chewed his head off?"

Grunting, Bucky shoved Steve's shoulder lighter than he ordinarily would. "I said, _I don't cry_."

"Sure, Buck—whatever ya say," snickered Steve, hugging Bucky Bear tightly to his chest in spite of what a _jerk_ he was being.

"You should be nice to me," insisted Bucky, sticking his nose as high in the air as it would go. "I didn't finish the game yet, but I was _gonna_."

With a frown, Steve's eyes fell to Bucky Bear's fur as he muttered, "You didn't hafta wait… You can go on and finish it."

Bucky shook his head, scooted up to the pillows, and threw his arms around Steve's neck. When Steve eventually managed to look up at him again, Bucky grinned.

"Nope. Not without you."


	14. Reset (2012)

**A/N: Please read chapter two of "Reclamation" before reading this one-shot. This one is actually my personal favorite, probably because this scene was the first I thought of before I even began this series. I hope you enjoy it!**

Reset (2012)

Steve had expected September first to be difficult, but he honestly had no idea how hard it would be to wake up and get ready for the journey to Hogwarts until his eyes opened that morning.

Nothing felt right—it hadn't in three years—and the same familiar sensation of something _missing_ descended upon him the moment he woke up. He knew what it was, of course; he'd known it since the first day of his fourth year when he boarded the Hogwarts Express and his best friend never arrived. It wasn't really like he had _expected_ Bucky to show up—by that point, everyone knew where he had gone and why. There was still that tiny part of him, however, that held out hope that maybe he would come back, that maybe Hogwarts was deemed safe enough for him to return while the rest of his family remained in hiding. It had been a spark that was extinguished the moment the whistle blew to signal the train was leaving the station, but that didn't stop it from reigniting at the start of his fifth year only to be doused once more.

This time was different. This time not even that tiny shred of something like hope would exist because it wasn't possible. Bucky had been gone for a few weeks now and was less likely to magically appear on the train than it was that Phillips would be the same surly asshole as usual. The chunk of Steve's heart where Bucky had always resided wasn't just aching anymore—it had been cut out and thrown somewhere Steve wouldn't be able to reach until he discovered for himself what came after death.

So, with a heavy sigh, he hauled himself out of bed and got dressed in the jeans and T-shirt his mom had laid out for him the night before since he couldn't be bothered to. He mechanically brushed his teeth and ate the waffles his mom had waiting even though they tasted like tar and made him want to gag. He couldn't even be sure whether it was just him or the food—he wouldn't tell her this, but his mother's cooking had taken a decided dip in quality ever since they'd gotten the news, and there had been a lot of take-out this summer as a result.

When it was time to leave, Steve paused in the entryway, his eyes automatically drawn to the black frame buried in the middle of all their memories. The whole family was there—his and Bucky's combined—so happy and so very ignorant. It hadn't even been four years ago yet, but it seemed like so much longer; the old man he felt like now was far removed from the little boys grinning up at him. Bucky's dark brown hair flopped down into his face; the boy in the picture kept shaking it out of his eyes, laughing as Winter swatted a paw at it.

Steve tried desperately to sear that image into his head, just as he'd done pretty much every day since the funeral, to no avail. The memory of Bucky's smile always dissolved into the recollection of his unsure expression as he'd followed Professor May to Fury's office for the last time or the charred remains that had haunted Steve's dreams for weeks. It didn't stop him from trying, though, and Steve took one final look at the happy family they used to be before heading back into the living room where his mother was waiting.

* * *

"I'm just saying, the fur's a little much."

Rolling her eyes, Peggy observed, "When you go to school practically in the Arctic, what do you think they're going to wear?"

"I get that, I _do_ ," Sam replied with a shake of his head. "But seriously, this is _Hogwarts_ , not whatever ice castle they had."

Steve smirked slightly, glancing over at the group of Durmstrangs Sam had started the conversation by pointing out. He saw Sam's point, but it appeared that old habits died hard. After all, he wasn't sure they had even gotten Hogwarts robes; this new arrangement had only just happened, so it wasn't like they would have had much time to prepare. They'd probably be stifling once they actually got to Hogwarts, although maybe that would do something to thaw the cold expressions they wore as they observed the Hogwarts students gathering along the platform. It wasn't that Steve expected them to jump right in and integrate themselves—no one did that unless they were unbelievably friendly or wanted something from you—but they didn't need to stand along the brick wall looking like they were waiting to be torn limb from limb either.

As Sam and Peggy continued to trade barbs, Steve let his mind wander. It wasn't as though he could focus on the conversation anyway, not when every little thing reminded him of the hole in his chest aching to be filled. Voices swam through his head, only they weren't the ones in the here and now. A constant flow of conversation rose in the empty spaces around them—journalists calling for stories, shared looks between a put-out father and a sympathetic friend, unspoken aggravation, bittersweet farewells between siblings—ghosts of the past that would never truly be gone from the place, at least not for Steve.

"—ow they play Quidditch in those things," Sam was musing when Steve eventually tuned back into the conversation, reluctantly forcing the specters aside for now.

"I assume in very much the same way you do," joked Peggy with a smirk.

Sam snorted. "It would totally throw the weight off, though."

"Not like you'd be playing Quidditch at all if it was that cold," Steve jabbed. It was an ill-kept secret that Sam was _not_ into flying around in the cold—he loved flying, but…

"Something about your balls freezing to your broom just doesn't interest me," he exclaimed for the millionth time since he made the Quidditch team. It was a sentiment Bucky had shared.

Sam shoved Steve hard in the shoulder, propelling all three of them into laughter. If Steve's was a little more strained than usual, neither of them said a word about it; Sam was kind enough to avert his eyes and Peggy simply laced their fingers together with a reassuring squeeze. Steve managed a quick smile in return before his attention was caught by a sudden movement of scarlet in the corner of his eye. Glancing over, he almost wrote the guy off as just another Durmstrang—then Steve saw the pair of big round cat eyes zeroed in on him over a red-clad shoulder. Steve frowned and began to turn—

"Steve? We should go find your mum."

Peggy's gentle suggestion broke through the static that he hadn't realized made the rest of the world go fuzzy, and Steve shot her a startled look before whipping back around.

The boy and the cat were nowhere to be seen.

"You all right, man?" inquired Sam with a frown of concern creasing his forehead. Steve didn't answer at first, his eyes glued to the spot where he could have _sworn_ he saw them. He let his gaze sweep over the surrounding area, but he didn't catch a glimpse of red robes or pink-orange eyes. Swallowing hard, he tore his attention away and offered a tense smile.

"Yeah," he murmured. "Just thought I saw someone."

* * *

Those eyes were still haunting Steve as he stretched out in the compartment, allowing the light conversation to flow around him as they traveled further away from London. It had been difficult to leave when he could see what it cost his mom to let him go, but she practically pushed him onto the train with promises that she was going to be just fine. He swore he would write every day, which seemed to soften the stern lines around her mouth a bit, and he hoped that would be enough. For both of them.

When he met up with the rest of his friends in the compartment, it was to find that none of them really had much to say at first either. They felt Bucky's absence the same as he did this year, and conversation in the face of their grief seemed sacrilegious. Eventually they moved past it, quietly discussing what had been a fairly uneventful end of the summer for most of them, but the shadow still hovered close over all their heads.

"I would have thought the British Ministry would join the task force," sighed T'Challa with a frown. For him, the last few weeks since the funeral had been spent in the United States with his father, who was working jointly with the Magical Congress to put together a task force against Hydra and terrorist organizations like them. "This happened under _their_ watch."

"That would mean admitting that they failed in something," responded Thor, almost unusually reserved.

"Which they did," Clint grunted. He slid lower in his seat with his arms folded across his chest as he surveyed the landscape slipping by outside the window. Out of all of them, Steve thought he might be having the hardest time—having missed the funeral, he didn't get the kind of closure the rest of them did. If it could even be called that.

"Not if you were to ask them," argued Peggy derisively. "They think they did a spiffing job. They haven't taken _any_ responsibility for the fact that Castle and Fisk knew _exactly_ who to ask to get what they wanted, and they're not going to. That's probably why they rushed the whole affair."

Frowning, Thor clarified, "The funeral, you mean?"

"Of course. Who in their right mind buries the bodies before the case is closed, especially if they might have evidence?"

"Look," interrupted Sam, whose eyes Steve had noticed darting between himself and Clint. "Maybe we should just leave it alone. What happened happened—arguing about it isn't going to change anything. Let's just… Let's just talk about Clint's crazy circus family, huh?"

The tension in the compartment fizzled out a bit as the others laughed. Even Clint had to grudgingly smirk at the joke when Sam jabbed him insistently with his elbow, recounting how he'd tried to do one of the tightrope tricks and ended up flat on his ass. The mood lightened considerably after that as each of them put their own two cents into the story. Steve was actually feeling a bit better for the first time that day until a sharp pain shot up his leg and he yelped, more out of shock than injury. Jerking his leg back from the open doorway, he reached down to pull up his pant leg only to get a face full of—

"What the…?"

Steve knew his mouth was hanging open as he pulled the cat back and stared, blinking stupidly. The black cat—with her white left paw and folded over ears and pink-orange eyes—meowed in his face. When he showed no signs of moving, she batted her paws at him to smack his nose. That snapped Steve out of his stupor enough to look around at his friends, unable to ask the question he really wanted to: _are you seeing this?_

Across the compartment, Clint was sitting ramrod straight with narrowed eyes as he surveyed the new arrival, his mouth opening and closing a few times as if he wanted to verbalize Steve's thoughts. The others were frozen in similar states of confusion and alarm, all their gazes locked on the cat that continued trying to goad Steve into pulling her closer.

Which he did. Whether it was a trick of the light or really just the luck they had come to expect in their lives this summer, Steve couldn't _not_ hug her close to his chest like she belonged there. The cat seemed to feel the same, purring contentedly and nuzzling his chin before making her best effort to smother him with cuddles. It took him back to another time—to being an eleven-year-old kid in Gryffindor Tower and waking up to find Winter asleep on his face. It didn't help the illusion that she even _smelled_ the same…

After an immeasurable moment, Steve pulled her back just enough to hug the cat tightly in his arms, letting her chew his fingers the same way Winter used to as he tried to find something— _anything_ —about this creature that _wasn't_ identical. All around him, his friends were speaking in hushed whispers as if the cat were a ghoul that might vanish at the slightest provocation.

"It _can't_ be…"

"Did they say anything about finding Winter?"

"It wouldn't matter—Fiendfyre would have destroyed anything that was left."

"Hey, they found his family. They should've found her."

"Even if they did, how on earth would she have gotten here?"

They didn't have time to ponder the answer before they were interrupted by the abrupt arrival of the red-robed boy from the platform, startling them all into silence.

Only Steve felt like he'd been struck by lightning.

He couldn't explain it. It made no sense—something just… _clicked_ the moment their eyes met over the furry ball of fluff in Steve's arms. He'd never met the Durmstrang before, nor had he seen him before today, but there was something familiar about him that sent a stabbing pain of _something_ through the center of Steve's heart. He just couldn't put his finger on what it meant.

For whatever reason, it appeared that the Durmstrang felt much the same way. His gaze never once left Steve's face, not even to return the looks he was getting from the other inhabitants of the compartment, and his gaping was just as noticeable as Steve's.

 _Does he feel it too? Whatever it is?_

Steve struggled to open his mouth and say something when another Durmstrang barged in, pushing herself through the now crowded doorway while asking something in what Steve assumed was Russian. The boy didn't answer.

"This your cat?" inquired Sam in his most obvious _Something's Fucking Wrong Here_ voice. Steve couldn't help tightening his grip on Winter— _not Winter,_ he chided himself, _the cat_ —in his arms, not quite ready to relinquish her yet. He got a cold little nose to the cheek for his trouble, so he figured it was all right with his new friend.

The girl, whose red hair clashed brilliantly with her robes, shot her companion a look before switching to English to reply, "Sorry, Yasha doesn't speak much English, but yes, that _is_ his cat."

Based on the pointed quality of her assertion, Steve assumed his time was up and stood from his seat reluctantly. For some reason, Yasha's eyes grew even wider for a moment and he stayed rigidly rooted to the spot. No one else in the compartment said a word as Steve stepped up to him, Yasha extending a hand after a long moment of their continued staring contest. The cat meowed at the sight of her owner, the sound much louder than it should have been in the silence falling heavily around them, and Steve hesitantly held her out for Yasha to take.

The look of relief on Yasha's face was potent as he plucked the cat into his own arms and buried his nose in her fur with a sigh. It almost made Steve feel bad about not wanting to give her back— _almost_. Could he really be blamed, though, for wishing that there was just one link left to his best friend?

He took it as a sign from whatever higher power there was that the answer was a resounding _no_ when the cat started pawing at Yasha's arm, which Steve hadn't noticed until that moment was hidden behind his leg where no one could see it.

Yasha remained still for a moment, a strange look on his face as his eyes once again met Steve's, but eventually his pet's insistence won out.

When he handed her a familiar stuffed monkey, Steve honestly thought he was going insane.

Maybe it was the fact that the cat looked so much like Winter. Maybe it was the strange sensation Steve got in his gut looking at Yasha. Maybe it was just the fact that it was September first and he was missing his best friend more than words could describe.

Whatever it was, Steve found his mouth opening, Bucky's name coming unbidden to the tip of his tongue—

When Yasha blurted out something and took off like every demon in Hell was on his tail.

Steve took a few aborted steps forward before he found himself face to face with the redhead, who was still standing in the doorway and staring after Yasha with an inscrutable expression on her face. When she turned back to them, she pasted an awkward smile into place.

"He said _thanks_ ," she translated with a shrug. "Sorry, he is not usually like that."

"Is he all right?" asked T'Challa quietly from somewhere behind Steve.

The redhead nodded, her smile growing a bit more genuine. "It was just a…really long summer, that's all. Anyway, thank you. I don't know what he would have done if he had lost her."

Apparently it was Steve's turn to talk, although he found it rather difficult to form the words. After a pregnant pause, he managed to reply, "Didn't do much, but my pleasure."

With a wave of farewell, the Durmstrang took her leave, presumably to follow Yasha back to their own compartment. She seemed nice enough and, if she was to be believed, Yasha was probably a nice guy as well. It really wasn't their fault that they left Steve feeling like he'd been run over by a pack of wild centaurs. It wasn't their fault that he couldn't get those brown eyes out of his head long after they'd left, when his friends exhausted the subject enough to turn to something else.

It wasn't their fault that those brown eyes haunted him as he defended Yasha on the platform, or that Yasha sounded so much like someone else when he spoke to Steve for the first time.

It wasn't their fault that those brown eyes felt like they were watching him as he argued with Sam and Peggy over the whole thing and whether maybe, just _maybe_ …

It wasn't their fault that brown eyes haunted his dreams alongside grey ones that night.


	15. From Zero to Beefcake (2011 and 2012)

**A/N: All right, last two one-shots! Please make sure you read chapter ten of "Reclamation" first!**

From Zero to Beefcake (2011 and 2012)

It wasn't a big deal. It was downright petty, if he was being honest.

But September first wasn't the day to piss off Steve Rogers anymore, so he really didn't care.

It started the same as last year: waking up, tamping down the little spark of hope, then reuniting with his friends despite an ubiquitous tone of disappointment. They sat in the compartment and swapped stories about their summers, their laughter more subdued than usual with many a glance spared at the door as if someone was going to come through it with a grin and a furry friend. It didn't happen, and the longer they waited for it, the quieter they got. Eventually, Steve couldn't handle it and muttered something about finding the food trolley before he made his escape. He was pretty sure he wasn't fooling anyone, but his friends were all good enough not to say anything about it.

So, he strode through the train cars, not sure whether he really _was_ searching for the trolley or just wandering as if the train went on forever. He tried to ignore the looks he was garnering from…well, _everyone_ , but it was pretty difficult when every single pair of eyes that turned in his direction did a double take. That, of course, led to the gaping and the raised eyebrows and the whispers that _little Steve Rogers is freaking enormous_. He supposed he should have expected it and been prepared for the surge of embarrassment, but it honestly hadn't crossed his mind. He still _felt_ like that little guy from Brooklyn inside no matter how big his muscles were now or how many people he towered over. It was an odd feeling, being able to see the tops of people's heads for once, one that he wasn't quite sure he was overly fond of yet. If it meant being gawped at like some freak of nature for the rest of the term, however, he was pretty sure what his final verdict would be.

As the eyes grew increasingly oppressive, Steve's pace quickened. It wasn't that he thought he would find some relief or escape from it—he had no doubt he'd be dealing with a whole lot more than this when they actually made it to Hogsmeade and he was out in the open for everyone to see—yet he still strode quickly down the corridors to evade the judgmental gazes.

For a moment, he managed to forget his original destination until it was staring him in the face when he stepped into the next train car.

Steve glanced back at the door he'd just closed behind him before mentally sighing and trudging towards the food trolley. He'd been eating more anyway since he hit his growth spurt earlier in the summer, so it wasn't like he couldn't use the extra calories. Besides, some sugar might do them all a little good, and he began digging in his pockets for the Galleons he'd brought with him while a group of second years finished giving the trolley witch their orders.

Well, while they _tried_ to finish their orders. Just as a particularly scrawny boy (even by _Steve's_ standards) was reaching for the pumpkin pasties he'd already paid for, a hand shot right over his head and snatched it out of his grasp. The boy wheeled around only to find himself face to face with—to Steve's complete lack of surprise—Hodge.

"Thanks, pal," the Slytherin sneered, tossing the cakes in the air once before turning to leave. "Thought I'd miss the last one."

"Give it back, Hodge," ordered Steve without thinking, his melancholy mood turning downright foul.

Snorting, Hodge otherwise didn't bother to acknowledge him at all and simply continued down toward the opposite end of the car. Steve's eyes narrowed as he quickly handed a few Galleons to the trolley witch, grabbed a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, and chucked it like a Quaffle.

Based on the hiss of pain, Steve assumed Hodge caught a corner on the back of his skull. _Pity._

"Excuse me!" shouted the witch, glaring up at Steve as though _he_ were the one being a total douchebag. Not that he _wasn't_ , but Hodge was a bigger one. For his part, Steve figured that if he was going to get in trouble for this, he may as well make it worthwhile.

Steve pushed past the trolley as Hodge turned, his cheeks red with anger, and ignored all the curious faces that peered out of the compartments to see what the fuss was about. From the look on his face, Hodge didn't even recognize Steve, which threw him for a moment until he remembered why. He couldn't deny that staring _down_ at Hodge was less unnerving than it was tremendously satisfying.

"The hell's your problem?" growled Hodge, taking a few steps toward Steve and holding up the pumpkin pasties. "You want these, huh?"

"You need to give them back to who you stole them from," Steve countered without breaking stride.

Sneer firmly back in place, Hodge stopped and shrugged. "Sure. All you had to do was ask."

Steve almost lost his composure when Hodge crushed the cakes in his fist and threw them over Steve's shoulder at the second year.

Well, maybe not _almost_.

It wasn't until Hodge was up against the wall, three feet off the ground with his legs kicking out wildly as Steve barely broke a sweat, that Steve realized he'd even moved. Or that he was strong enough to lift a guy Hodge's size off the ground, which was no mean feat. …Or that Hodge hadn't even had a chance to get a punch in.

 _Huh. Not bad._

Gathering his wits, Steve shook Hodge roughly and murmured, "You're gonna pay that kid back. Now."

"Man, you're nuts—get the hell off me!" shouted Hodge, jerking and twisting and utterly failing to break Steve's grip. Another hard shake had him freezing in fear as his head struck the glass behind him.

"You've gotten away with this shit for too long," growled Steve. "Now, you can pay him back or I can make your face look like that." He pointed at the pumpkin pasties, crushed against the carpet a few feet away. "Your choice."

Hodge opened his mouth, probably to make some snide comment, but it appeared that he thought better of it when he took another look at Steve—particularly his arms, or as Clint called them, _the ass-beating tree-trunks from Hell._

It was when he finally looked Steve in the eye, however, that he seemed to realize the gravity of the situation. Steve wasn't sure he'd ever seen someone turn so many shades of green in such a short amount of time, but Hodge was managing it beautifully.

"Rogers?" whispered Hodge, eyes wide like he couldn't quite believe them.

Steve didn't bother confirming it as he asked, "So, where's your money?"

* * *

It took Bucky an inordinate amount of time to get over the fit of laughter that gripped him after Steve recounted the story of his first meeting with Hodge during what Bucky had taken to calling his _Post-Beefcake_ _Period_. When he did, Steve couldn't help noticing the flash of _something_ other than mirth in his eyes as they surveyed him over the fire. Steve didn't dwell on it, though. It was still something else, seeing Bucky's (or technically _Yasha's_ ) eyes again when, not even a week ago, Steve had been sure they would be lost to him forever outside of his memories. Now, though, being back in their Spot with the fire between them and Winter splayed out beside its warmth… It felt surreal, albeit in the best possible way.

"Why am I not surprised that you didn't even make it past your _first day_ without starting a fight with Hodge?" snorted Bucky, that strangely reticent gleam not quite fading from his gaze.

Shrugging, Steve evaded, "I didn't _start_ it."

"You never do." At Steve's one-fingered salute, Bucky snorted and shook his head with a sigh. "Did he get in trouble?"

"Yeah. Turns out you can't get away with shit when that trolley witch is around."

"Which means you got in trouble too."

Steve paused, scratching the back of his neck and shrugging bashfully. "Fury wanted to talk about it."

"Wow, first night back and already in the headmaster's office," grinned Bucky with a sarcastically proud nod. "I think that's what Wilson calls _maximum effort_."

"I didn't get in trouble, though!" exclaimed Steve, frowning perplexedly when Bucky snorted.

"'Course you didn't. You're Fury's favorite troublemaker."

Steve opened his mouth, found that he couldn't really argue with that, and shut it again. After all, he'd done plenty of things that would get pretty much anyone else thrown out of Hogwarts before they could say _expelled_. For some reason, Fury never held him to those standards. Maybe it was the fact that Steve didn't do it to be an asshole, or just that he was trying to take _down_ the assholes when he did. Either way, Fury generally let him off the hook pretty easy with just a detention or something while Hodge and others like him usually ended up with much heftier punishments. Hell, Steve's mom hadn't even gotten any letters about it, which was saying something—Steve swore that Fury got off on how many Howlers he could incite.

"Well, someone's gotta be when Stark's cornered the market on his favorite nuisance," Steve eventually replied, smirking at Bucky's bark of laughter.

He couldn't help but frown when Bucky fell silent, however, his hair falling on either side of his face and obscuring his eyes in the lengthening shadows. Even Winter seemed to sense the shift in his mood and abandoned her spot by the fire to curl up in his lap where he could absentmindedly stroke her head. Steve almost asked what was wrong but stopped himself at the last second. If there was one thing he'd learned about Bucky—not the Bucky he'd grown up with, but the guilt-ridden and grieving Bucky who had to hide away from the world—it was that pushing him before he was ready was just as likely to make him shut down _more_ as it was to provoke an answer. So he waited, trying not to make it obvious that he was watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye. If he wasn't succeeding, Bucky didn't bother mentioning it.

An immeasurable moment passed in silence before Bucky finally spoke, his voice so quiet that Steve almost couldn't hear it over the crackling of the fire. "Just…don't bite off more than you can chew, Steve."

"I haven't," Steve hastened to reassure him in spite of the twinge of indignation he felt at being told that _yet again_. It helped to remember that Bucky had lost _every freaking member of his family_ —he found it quite easy to keep his temper in check with that in mind. "That was actually the last fight I was in. And it really wasn't much of one."

For a second, he wasn't sure Bucky would respond to the levity of his last comment. Then a small smile rose in the corners of his mouth like the sun ascending over the horizon every morning, lighting up the Spot more than their fire.

"Guess he just didn't want to take on some prime Rogers beefcake."

"You're never gonna let that go, are you?"

"Nope."


	16. The Taste of Insanity (2012)

**A/N: Please read chapter eight of "Reclamation" before you read this one-shot.**

The Taste of Insanity (2012)

Gryffindor Tower was home to a number of somber faces. It wasn't that they'd never lost a Quidditch match before—far from it, much as they all hated to be reminded of that fact—but they'd gone all-out on this one. They had the best players, best strategies, and best equipment in years; they'd spent so many hours practicing that they could all run each play blindfolded in their sleep with blast-ended skrewts hanging off the ends of their brooms. Okay, so maybe _that_ was an exaggeration, but that didn't change the reality of the situation: they'd prepared beyond measure for the match, and by all accounts, they should have won.

It still wasn't enough. Hufflepuff's team, for the first time, was formidable. Sure, they'd had plenty of great players over the years and won a few matches in their own right. Clint was talented enough for the major leagues, and Sam wasn't too far behind once he got his flight legs underneath him. But today? It had been a while since they'd played such a brutal game, which was really saying something when it came to Quidditch.

That wasn't what had Steve's mind whirling at dizzying speeds, however. It wasn't what kept him rooted to the spot, sitting on the floor in front of the fire with his knees pulled up to his chest as he stared sightlessly into the flames. No, the match was just that—one of a million games to be won or lost to the fickle fate of chance and skill. Instead, he was haunted by brown eyes and the swing of a bat.

The moment Yasha Smirnov had let that Bludger fly, Steve had been transported back to a time when life wasn't so dark and foreboding. In that brief snatch of time, he was staring at his best friend with a surge of indignation that he wouldn't treat Steve the same as any other player by knocking his teeth out while he had the chance. He'd gone tumbling through the air, stunned more effectively than any spell could have managed, as the past replaced the present and left him reeling. If he hadn't known any better, he would have thought his asthma attacks were coming back for all that he could force air into his lungs.

And then the instant passed and Yasha was falling and they were too high, _too high_ —

Steve shook his head and slammed his eyes shut tight, unsuccessfully attempting to banish that image from his mind. His ears still rang with the sound of Yasha's scream of pain, so similar in cadence to one that rent the air in anger during any number of his many fights over the years. The palm of his hand still tingled where it had made contact with Yasha's skin beneath the sleeve of his robes as Steve had slowly lowered him to the ground.

As the hours passed, Steve remained lost in his thoughts and hallucinations until long after the common room had cleared out, leaving him alone with his increasing surety that he was finally losing his mind. The very notion made his chest tight with poorly suppressed dismay. What had he done to deserve this madness? The last few months had already been difficult enough—hell, the last _three_ _years_ had been the worst of his life, missing the vibrancy and happiness that he'd once so stupidly taken for granted. Why had the world chosen _now_ , of all times, to torment him with that which wasn't true—which _couldn't_ be true?

 _But…_

There was that damn word again. _But_. It never heralded anything worthwhile in his head, only useless bouts of hope that inevitably led to torturous despair. _But_ what if the papers were lying— _but_ what if the Ministry had it wrong— _but_ what if it was all some terrible dream— _but_ what if he'd survived— _but but but_ —

 _But_ those eyes.

 _But_ that voice.

 _But_ that laugh, infrequent as it was.

Growling, Steve scrubbed his hands over his face with ruthless force in an attempt to climb back out of that rabbit hole before it swallowed him forever. He was familiar with its entrance now, after months of finding himself drifting through its dark depths without respite. Every time he thought that he managed to find a foothold, something else tripped him up and sent him careening out of control. Just when he finally convinced his traitorous brain to remember that the last of his hopes had been quashed long ago, it would utter that damning _but_ and drive him right over the edge again. It was an ongoing battle, one he was determined to win.

One thing, however, was painfully obvious no matter how unreliable his own mind might have been: there was something _wrong_ with Yasha Smirnov.

That much wasn't news, really. He'd been privy to plenty of conversations between Nat and Jarvis by now, oftentimes when they didn't realize he still had his translator activated, and he knew they were concerned. Steve recognized the same hopeless uncertainty in them that he felt simmering in the pit of his stomach, albeit for quite different reasons. Or…perhaps not so different after all. The pattern had emerged before his eyes, hidden beneath tales of sudden grief and aborted communication and loss of appetite and nonverbal depression. It had woven together into a tapestry all its own, wrapping around someone _else's_ timeline like a blanket, worn but welcome, tired but familiar. _Expected_ , if even one of those _buts_ was more than just that.

Steve didn't dare to so much as _think_ the words. He wouldn't allow himself to harbor such hope when it would only lead to devastation.

 _…_ _But._

The parchment was in his hands before he realized that he'd reached into his bag to pull it out, and by the time he came to his senses, the frog was made. After that, the spell was simple.

 _But..._

What would he think? Would he ask for clarification? Would he believe Steve was some kind of weirdo who had officially lost his mind? (Steve himself wasn't ruling it out, so why should _he_?) The questions piled one on top of the other until he was about to just crumple up the parchment and toss it into the fire where it belonged—

 _But._

A few seconds later, an origami frog hopped out through the portrait hole to find its intended recipient. Rather than ease the weight that seemed to have been sitting on Steve's chest since summer, however, the knowledge of what he'd just done ate at his heart until he was positive it would stop beating at any moment. In all honesty, much as he refused to say the words, he wasn't sure what he was hoping to get out of this venture—answers? Closure? Or just something else to self-flagellate with?

Maybe it was just confirmation. Either he was losing his mind, or…

 _Don't do it,_ he chided himself wearily. _Don't go there._

If there was one thing he'd learned in the last three years, it was that allowing room for hope usually only ended in more disappointment than if he'd been realistic. He'd lost count of how many times Peggy and Sam reminded him of that.

It didn't help. Agonizing minutes passed while he debated whether or not to just go to bed. A glance at the clock told him that it was far too late to expect an answer tonight—if he got one at all—and he was worried he might start clawing the walls in his eager apprehension if he sat there any longer.

 _…_ _But?_

But something poked his hand where it was digging into the plush carpet beneath him, and when Steve looked down, his eyes nearly popped out of his skull to see that his parchment frog had returned. It waited almost impatiently as he gawped, letting him make a first move he wasn't quite sure he was capable of. Maybe there was no reply written inside… Maybe the reply would tear his heart out even as he tried to shore up its defenses…

 _But._

With trembling fingers, he reached out and let the frog hop onto his palm. He'd never know if he didn't look, and if there was one thing no one would ever call Steve Rogers, it was a coward.

So, he unfolded the frog with a _but_.

He flattened the parchment with a _but_.

He read…

 ** _The Spot._**

 ** _Next Hogsmeade weekend._**

 ** _Come alone._**

…with a _but._

He watched tears of confusion and hope and agony stain the parchment with a _but_.

* * *

 **A/N: Well, that's all she wrote! ...Literally, that's all I wrote for this series. I hope you guys have enjoyed it! After I wrote this, I decided to take a break from writing for the MCU so that I wouldn't burn out, but migrating it here from AO3 has really made me miss my favorite boys so much. That being said, once my latest FFXV fic is finished updating next week, I'm going to devote more of my time to Marvel again (and Cap in particular, because I'll be honest with you, that branch of the MCU is my jaaaaaaam). In any case, I have a relatively short multi-chapter story in the works called "Ekhaya" that I hope to start posting in the coming weeks; after that, my Cap!Steve and modern!Bucky zombie AU will be out early this fall. (It's about a third written already, but I'd like to be closer to the end before I start posting it.) If you've enjoyed this series, I hope that I will see you again there. Thank you so much!**


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